Lacroix
by Danowsawa
Summary: Her whole life, Amélie Guillard has never had control of her own actions. Made to look a certain way by her parents, and even told to marry the prestigious Overwatch lieutenant, Gérard Lacroix, she finds small freedoms in her ballet and her other minuscule interests. When she meets an American, however, she decides to take control of her own life...but how long will that last?
1. Un

Inside of a small café, somewhere near the outskirts of Paris. Warmly lit, orange lights line the ceiling, though only a few are lit, giving the space a darkly bright, almost cozy feeling. The light sounds of spoons clattering around mugs, of forks gently hitting saucers of small desserts, even with a room of so few people, it still seemed rather lively.

The smoky, bean-like aroma of coffee ran through the air, even before the single waitress brought around the rotund pitcher of the dark beverage, bending lightly over tables before inevitably pouring a mugful to some vagabond or silent artist, sitting still in one of the booths, pouring over a manuscript or screenplay.

It was midnight, and only the certain breed of people that relish this time of night remained in the world. The café sat on the corner of a small street, out of the way this far put from the city center. Tourists rarely came this far out, save for the few that enjoyed such things- experiencing the true life of a culture- the only sort of tourists most of this café's patrons were truly interested in.

Sitting away from the windows, in one of the farther booths of the café, sat Amélie Guillard, sitting beside a small instrument case, holding up sheets of paper in front of her, her finger wrapping around the paper to lift it up for her to read. Her eyes followed the sheet music, carefully, trying to hear the music as her eyes ran across the paper.

 _"If the sum – mer were a…"_

She bit her lip, tensely, as her brow now furrowed in impatience. She was trying to imagine the tune in her mind, simply by looking at the notes, without taking the time to pull out her instrument. Besides, it wouldn't have been proper, here, in a small café this late at night. She ducked her head for a moment to collect herself before starting again.

 _"If the sum – mer were a lit -tle…"_

She sighed under her breath, shaking her head before dropping the papers onto the table, simply reaching to her mug for a sip of her coffee. As she pulled her mug away from her lips, she hurriedly ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, as if doing her best to avoid staining them with the dark drink. Her eyes lingered around, carefully eyeing the bar in the middle of the room, watching the waitress collect some drinks onto her small tray.

Amélie's eyes followed her to a nearby table, now examining the young man sitter there, graciously accepting the glass handed to him before returning his full attention to the screen of his laptop. Perhaps she should get one as well? It would certainly help with transposing sound into pulses within her brain.

She returned to her table, gently holding onto her salt shaker, rolling it around in a circle upon her table as she thought, probably about tomorrow. She needed to be getting home soon, anyway. Her days alternated, and tomorrow was her day of ballet. She would need to relinquish her viola to the closet until next time.

As she thought, she stared blankly into the window in front of her, lining the outer wall of the café. Suddenly, a man appeared, almost in a hurry, walking along briskly with his head held low. Amélie watched him curiously, her head turning slowly as the man approached the corner, rounding it just until coming to the door of the café, ducking into the place hastily.

His focus remained on the window where Amélie had been looking herself, as if watching for any pursuers. He quickly dropped his coat down his shoulders, twisting it inside out, as it was reversible, the inside lining not only a different color but a different pattern. As he hastily walked further down the windows, Amélie's eyes darkened as he came closer to her table, she being very unhappy that he was doing so, probably knowing what he was thinking.

In a suddenly burst, he jumped toward her table, falling into the booth across from her, pulling the coat high over his shoulders, covering his torso and head, his body instantly becoming still. Amélie watched him, unenthused, though her focus quickly turned upward as a group of men angrily ran down the same line of windows, most of them rounding the corner. One, however, had peered into the windows of the café and stopped at its doorway, curiously peeling his head in.

Amélie turned back to the man at her table, angrily pulling her leg up before furiously kicking him in the stomach. Besides a small groan, nothing came from him, and she turned back to the goon entering the café, looking around rather viciously for his prey.

As he slowly walked along the booths, eventually he came closer and closer to Amélie, probably curious of the lump across from her. She watched him as their eyes met, her gaze full of antipathy at the idea of him bothering her.

He only watched her seriously, stopping at her table, stuffing his hands into his pockets as his body rolled back, as if trying to impress her, "'s that the man I'm lookin' fer?"

"He's my brother, if you have business with him," Amélie replied, assuredly, without breaking eye contact, "He's come home from out of town and was tired."

The goon was still curious, though the man's coat was certainly different from earlier. He sniffed menacingly, though one of his buddies hurried back to the door, jumping into the café and shouting.

"C'MON REILLY! WE GOT 'IM!"

The second guy ran back off, leaving the goon at Amélie's table alone again. He sniffled once more as he backed up slowly, before turning and walking off, quickly, toward the exit. He'd been so quick, the door hadn't closed, and the bell didn't ring, leaving Amélie's "visitor" remaining underneath his coat. She angrily pulled her leg back again, before immediately pelting him with kicks, repeatedly, until he finally cried out, rising up into the seat, his coat sliding off into the chair as he rubbed his arm.

"Y'know, that hurts," he muttered, disdainfully.

Amélie glared at him, "Then you should learn some manners."

The man watched her, but quickly lost his will, unable to argue with the fact that'd hed just hopped on in without explanation. He continued rubbing his arm, looking away as the waitress appeared, indifferently.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Uh, yeah," the man answered, "And she deserves a…"

He quickly noticed that she'd already had a coffee, so he adjusted his order, "Uh, you have any cheesecake?"

The waitress nodded as she turned to walk away, the man leaning to the side as he reached for his wallet, fully aware of this woman's singe-worthy stare. He more or less ignored it instead folding up his coat beside him.

"I don't eat cheesecake," Amélie spoke quietly, almost breathlessly, as the man peered up at her.

"Oh, uh, I can get you-"

"Leaving me to my work would be apology enough," she muttered angrily.

The man chuckled nervously, "Oh. Okay, well thank you, ma'am."

He reached over for a handshake, though it was not reciprocated, so he simply smiled as he retrieved his hand, "I'm Michael. Hale. and it was a pleasure doing business with you."

She eyed him sarcastically, "Same here."

He chuckled as he slid out of the booth, walking on to another table nearby, sitting down as he pulled a folder from within his coat. Amélie rolled her eyes as she turned back to her sheet music, shaking her head. She took her mug, downing quite a bit of her coffee, the bitter taste serving to enhance the experience of whatever had just transpired.

The waitress returned, but Michael waved her over to his new table, though he didn't take the cheesecake, leaving the waitress to bring it over to Amélie. For a moment, she thought to send it back, but figured it would be worth this man's money to simply accept it and throw it out. It was expensive cheesecake; not that he'd know without a menu.

She pushed the cheesecake away, pulling her sheet music up, her eyes once again running down the bars of notes. She attempted to hear the music once more, the lyrics accompanying the music, again, used as a guide for her to follow.

 _"If the sum -…"_

She bit back a furtive groan, her hand clenching further into a fist before she took a deep breath. She'd regressed. She couldn't believe she was having such difficulty with this- she'd been a ballerina all her life. She could move her body in time with music, could memorize melodies. But when put into such a blank, concrete form, she couldn't manage to hear what she knew was there.

She reached for her case, sighing, prepared to disturb the café, anyway, in an attempt to end her maddening cycle of futility. She needed to learn the piece anyway. As she grasped the ridged plastic, however, she suddenly heard a subtle humming coming from behind her. She slowly turned, noticing Michael there, hunched away from her as he wrote down on a small stack of his own papers, loudly humming to himself.

That wasn't as big of deal as _what_ he was humming. It was from a ballet, one Amélia had performed in, years ago. Her eyes arrowed as she watched him, recognizing so intricately his melody, to the point where she saw the performance in her head.

She suddenly spoke up, rather loudly, "Michael Hale."

The man jumped at his name, turning slightly as he finished up, finally turning the whole way, his arm hanging off the back of the chair, "Yeah?"

"You know 'La Sylphide'?" Amelia inquired, curiously, though still with a bit of a scowl on her face.

Michael's face dropped with surprise, "Oh, uh, yeah. I saw it when it came through town last. Can't get it out of my head."

He began to chuckle as he scratched his chin, nervously, as Amélie asked further, "So you know music?"

Looking off into space, Michael nodded, "I suppose, yeah. I mean, it's not what I do professionally, but I play piano. Some guitar."

He thought of any other instruments before Amélie interrupted him, waving him over, impatiently. He turned back to finish something up at his table before standing up and walking over toward hers, gently pushing the saucer of cheesecake back toward the middle of the table, taking a seat as Amélie continued speaking.

"Here," she spoke, bluntly, handing him the sheet music, "Can you read this?"

He nodded simply, "Yeah. I jus-"

"Hum it," Amélie demanded, earning a stare from Michael, so she went on, "You wanted to thank me, correct? So? Hum it."

His brow curled insecurely as he eyed the restaurant, thinking they were far enough away from anybody else. He knew he'd been humming at his table, but if this woman had heard him…

Michael cleared his throat, shaking his head as he prepared, slowly eyeing the café once more before humming along to the tune, slower than the meter suggested, as he was going off of this for the first time. Amélie nodded approvingly as he did, recognizing the tune that the instructor had played before.

Eventually, however, Michael's head began to nod, slowly, as he became more and more engrossed in the music, speeding up, reading the lyrics. Eventually, he began to simply sing the words, albeit quietly.

"-and in the sum – mer shade, to – get –her with the – sun."

He finished, slowly dropping the sheet music onto the table, shrugging, "How was that?"

"Much better than myself," Amélie noted, blankly, collecting the sheets as she flipped through them once more.

Michael grinned, leaning back in his booth, "You seem bothered by that."

She glared at him over the papers for a brief moment before continuing down the sheets. Michael sat there for a few moments before gently sidling out of his seat, standing to return to his seat.

"Hey," Amélie spoke up, catching his attention, "What are you doing?"

"Grading papers," he answered with a smile that meant he knew she wouldn't believe him, "I'm a teacher, after all."

Sure enough, she eyed him suspicious, but he grabbed one of the papers from his stack and handed it to her. She went only it briefly before handing it back, shrugging.

"Look, just bring it all over here," Amélie quietly spoke up, indifferently, "Somebody has to eat this thing and I'm not going to touch it."

Michael gave a half-hearted grin before doing as she said, sitting across from her once again, sorting out his papers anew. He pulled out a green pen and started marking the pages, leaving Amélie unable to resist watching what it was he was doing.

"You're English?" she asked, sincerely.

He chuckled, not releasing his attention from the paper beneath him, "Almost. I'm American, actually."

"Well, that makes two things, in a row no less, that I find hard to believe."

Michael's head rose to reveal a wry grin before turning back down again, "Why's that? My French is too good?"

Amélie shrugged, "Pretty good, I'd say. There's nothing like growing up into the language, though. You enjoy the ballet, too. I thought Americans were too stupid for either of those things."

Smirking widely, Michael retorted, "Well now you know, I suppose. And I was always told Parisians were incredibly-"

He paused, suddenly noticing Amélie's intensely droll stare, just waiting for him to speak, which, of course, resulted in him not doing so. He simply bent his head down to take a sip of his coffee before clearing his throat.

"I'm from Annecy, don't worry," Amélie confirmed, amusedly, though still in her deadpan way.

Relieved, Michael chuckled slightly, "arrogant, was what I was going to-"

He suddenly turned to see the waitress at the table, staring down at him with a bemused expression. Michael smiled back, nervously, though she was sure to refill Amélie's mug with coffee, skipping his empty one, before walking off, rather elegantly for one upset.

" _She_ may be from here," Amélie confirmed, closing her eyes as she sipped from her mug once more, wiping her teeth again with her tongue as she lowered the mug again.

"Ah," Michael nodded, knowingly, "You're a singer."

"Pardon?"

"Your teeth," he noted, "You're an actress or singer or something. You give performances or something- you're very conscious of your teeth."

Amélie's face lightly showed red as she started angrily at her guest, "So you're analyzing me?"

He laughed, "I'd be much too frightened to do such a thing to anybody with large instrument cases. It's just, you know, a thing; nothing big, right?"

She slowly returned her gaze to her sheet music, almost forgetting why she'd invited him to her table until he began to cut into his cheese cake. Thankfully, he'd gone into silence as he started grading his papers once again.

She only allowed herself cursory glances over toward him, trying to figure him out. Still not convinced that he was telling the truth, though conceding that the facts did seem to add up, she kept watch over him, carefully, caught between curiosity and that feeling a predator gets when stalking prey.

"What do you teach?" she asked, suddenly, "Looked like English."

Michael nodded, not lifting his head up as he gingerly wrote on one student's paper, "It is. I'm an English teacher in Paris; believe it or not, some people wish to learn it, even here. I make them write it down, though, instead of using computers- it helped me a great deal when I was learning French."

Amélie nodded slowly, "Uh huh, and how did you come about learning French at all? much less so well?"

As if expecting an interrogation, Michael grinned, dropping his pen onto the top sheet before shoving it aside, pulling his cheesecake closer, "Well, I've lived here about two years, now, teaching. That helped a great deal. As to why I learning it in the first place, I don't know. I've always been great at English, which explains my career choice, but French…"

He paused to think, shoving his fork down into his cheesecake, a soft clang pouring out as he broke through the crust, hitting the sauce beneath, "I don't know. I just like it, I suppose."

Amélie watched him carefully as he took a bite, looking off as if to avoid watching her as he chewed, before speaking up, "Okay, I think I deserve a few questions."

"As the man whom I rescued from some streetrats?" Amélie questioned, smugly.

Michael smiled, "No, but I didn't get an answer before. I'd eat one of these papers if I turned out to be wrong that you're a performer of some sort."

Amélie stared at him, her voice escaping ever so slowly, almost reluctantly, "Yes… I'm a ballet dancer."

"Really?" Michael asked with interest, "Okay, that explains La Sylphide. You must be good then. Been doing it your whole life?"

"Pretty much," she nodded, barely, "I've never been the type to fail at much, honestly. That's why this music thing bothers me so. I've had nothing but trouble since taking up the viola."

Michael eyed her case, curiously, "The viola? Madam, you accuse me of claims that are difficult to make sense of, yet you carry around a viola of all instruments."

Amélie shrugged, just visibly, "I figured I'd give it a shot, take some time off ballet. The viola was the only thing missing from the local amateur symphony group, so why not? Why? Is it a mythical instrument to you?"

"It could be," Michael smiled, "If you showed me it and a violin, _I_ certainly couldn't tell the difference, personally. Just an interesting thing to hear."

He paused, his head moving slightly in confusion, "Much like your name, which I'm still unaware of."

As if it were a much more personal thing than anything else she'd spoken on, Amélie tensed, tapping her finger against the table absently, considering doing so, eventually speaking up, "Amélie."

"Amélie," Michael nodded slightly, as if tasting the name rolling of the tongue, "Well, there's no doubting you're French."

To this, Amélie gave only the slightest hint of a grin, untraceable by Michael, as she replied, "I'm not the one making outrageous claims."

Michael shrugged alongside his own smile, "I can't blame you; I get much the same from anybody."

Amélie nodded, "How did you come to teach here?"

Almost darkening, Michael lowered his head, reaching for his pen, "That's not something you'd care to know. Even if you did, it's not the sort of story I'd tell even to friends."

He paused for a moment, his eyes flashing up toward her, "Let's just say I simply felt like teaching here, that's all."

Amélie tilted her head in indifference, preparing for Michael's next question, though it took him a while. He returned to his grading, scribbling notes across the tops of each, in green pen, before giving a letter grade. Most of the student's writings were incredibly messy, though Amélie could easily tell which had been done by women rather than men.

"Why were you running?" she asked, quietly.

Michael grinned, lifting his head to reveal his boyish smile, "I gave a bad tip, it seems. They noticed my glasses, briefcase, and tie, and I guess they figured I was a teacher or, at least, somebody learned. Asked me which horse to bet on, showed me an intricate list of statistics they must have pilfered online."

He chuckled to himself, "English is about the farthest from statistics that you can get, though, but I wasn't about to upset some street toughs. I gave them the best answer, left, and on my way to look for a place to grade papers, they came out of nowhere, yelling at me in some French accent I couldn't understand."

"Then you so graciously welcomed me at your table," he finished with flair, though Amélie remained unamused.

She only shook her head as she reached for her coffee, "You're certainly an interesting man, Michael Hale."

He grinned in acknowledgement, "Really?"

"Well," Amélie continued, "You're an interesting sort of stupid, perhaps."

At that, Michael burst out into a laugh, quickly covering his mouth so as to not disturb the other patrons, save for the waitress, who still eyed him from the counter. He nodded his head agreeably.

"Well, it would certainly seem that way in your shoes, I suppose," he nodded, reaching for his mug, only to realize that it hadn't been filled, forcing another soft laugh from him, "I just keep making enemies tonight, it seems."

Amélie watched him, almost pitiably, behind her blank face. She turned, waving at the waitress, who attentively approached the table, going on to refill Michael's drink at Amélie's behest, her open hand directing her as such. She didn't bother acknowledging Michael, though must have recognized Amélie as a regular, he figured, before she walked off.

"In the States, waitresses work on tips, you know," Michael noted, reaching for his mug, "Here, it certainly pays to not piss off the waitress."

Amélie shook her head, almost in quiet disbelief, "For one from such an uncivilized life, you seem to-"

She paused, remembering how she first came to come across this man, shaking her head, "Never mind."

He only grinned at her, grabbing for his pen again.


	2. Deux

The two of them continued speaking for a time, mostly small talk. Michael would periodically remain silent while going over some more papers, wherein Amélie would take the opportunity to take a sip of coffee, careful not to wipe her tongue across her teeth, simply due to him pointing it out. She had always been rather head strong, a term she'd always found more becoming than "stubborn". Her behavior with Michael wasn't anything new, although, given his entrance, she was probably more standoffish than normal. Michael didn't seem to mind, which she found odd; her attitude often kept others at bay, and true to her being head strong, she refused to adjust her manner. She knew the word describing it was more becoming that her behavior itself.

Michael clicked the tip of his pen, stretching out his arms before checking his watch, his piece showing 02:35, which gave him a slight start. He peered up toward Amélie, who had put away her sheet music and was now tapping her fingers on the table as her eyes glossed over her cell phone, her finger doing more swiping than tapping.

"Do you need to be home at this hour?" Michael asked, sincerely.

She shrugged, her eyes not leaving her phone, "Wherever I need to be, I suppose."

Michael smirked, hiding a chuckle, "The plot deepens, then. Surely somebody with such aspirations should be asleep this late?"

Her eyes shot above her phone toward him, "Are you complaining? Were I not here, I believe you'd be in an alleyway somewhere by now, hoping for some Good Samaritan."

Now showing a laugh, Michael leaned back in his seat, nodding, "True. You have quite a way of words, you know."

"Comes with the territory," she shrugged, "If you'd been born into my family, you'd be striving for perfection yourself. Even your diction wouldn't be beneath improvement."

Michael nodded, "Well, I can't speak for my French, but I _am_ an English teacher. I'd say my diction is pretty good; even in French, I try and study words, possibly, of your caliber."

Amélie watched him closely. She couldn't figure out his game. Why was he continuing to converse with her? Was he trying to hit on her? No, he had spent enough time on his grading, nor had he ever made any explicit passes at her. Was he simply a weird person? That would certainly explain their meeting.

Finally, she simply asked, Why are you here? Shouldn't a man of _your_ profession not be out, chased by goons, at two o'clock?"

Michael thought for a moment before answering honestly, pointing at his folder with a thumb, "I mean, I _do_ have to finish these, so I would be out anyway. The goons were an odd circumstance. As for speaking with you-"

He shrugged, "I don't know; you certainly seem interesting. It's fun talking to you."

"Fun?" she asked, a bit peeved, "Talking to someone as confrontational and blunt as me?"

Michael chuckled, "I mean, even you must admit, not many people act like you. You're just different is-"

"Are you trying to hit on me?" she asked, brusquely, almost with a twinge of anger in her voice.

Hurriedly, Michael fell back against the back of his seat, "What? No, no; really, I was just-"

He chuckled nervously, shaking his head as a gloomy smile began to set in on his face, "Trust me, I'm not at all interested in anything like that."

Looking away, Michael stared off into space, shoving his hands into his pockets, "It's a long story, though. Basically, I didn't accept a job here just to get a job here. I left a bit more than a home back in the States."

His grim smile grew before he shrugged, staring at the table. Amélie leaned back herself, reaching into her coat pocket to pull out a pocket watch, her eyes flashing down to the time piece before she spoke up, curiously.

"This late, we've nothing but time."

Michael laughed quietly, "Sorry. While, unlike you, I'll reveal something of myself easily, like you, I have my own stories I withhold from others. Basically, you need not worry; I won't be asking you for a number or anything."

He thought for a moment, "I may ask for the next ballet you'll be performing in, but that might be it."

Amélie darkly lowered her head, blinking slowly as her finger tracer the inside track of the handle on her mug, "La Sylfides. Do you know its story?"

Michael nodded, though with a goofy smile, "Not at first; I got it confused with that Chopin one. I corrected myself, though. It's about a man who inadvertently runs from his wedding to chase his dream, Sylfide, into the woods, right?"

He stopped for a moment, glibly remarking, "I'm not Sylfide, by the way."

Amélie eyed him blandly, "You're about four inches shorter than my Sylfide."

Michael's head dipped to hide an amused smirk as she shrugged, continuing along from earlier, "I used to enjoy fairy tales like that. but only the tragic ones. My family strove for perfection so greatly, not only did I become desensitized to it, but it became a vehicle for me to feel disconnected with my humanity. Being human isn't to be perfect, after all."

Michael rose his head to listen inquisitively, her voice as still as a lake in the moonlight, "Despite being, more or less, forced to conform -I got into ballet, broke a few toes, but as long as I became perfect at it, it didn't matter to my parents- I did what I could to escape. Whenever I was able, I spent whatever time I could in the wine cellar, where everything was drab, cold, shelves displaced- everything imperfect. It was solemn to me."

She reached over, placing a hand on her viola case, her voice still even, "I'm not good at music. Despite me getting frustrated at not being able to understand it fully, I can't help but find an odd pleasure in that. There's a certain…"

She paused, her lips slightly pulled to the side as she mulled over her words, "There's a certain _surrender_ that comes with that. Not being good at something, I mean. It means having to admit that you need somebody else. It's slightly comforting when I think about it in that way."

Michael nodded slowly in understanding, "I can see that. Though, I suppose in _that_ sense, I don't really appreciate my shortcomings. You make it sound rather romantic."

Amélie shrugged tastelessly, "If you say so."

Michael went on, "So why tell me all that?"

"Well," she began, monotone, "Maybe I was just curious of _your_ story. At least of why you came here. If you're sincere, and we won't be exchanging anything other than stories, it's not as if you'll be able to haunt me any further than tonight."

Sighing in reply, Michael leaned over the table with his arm bracing him as he took a sip of coffee, "Well, it involves a girl."

"They always do," Amélie spoke pithily, earning a wry grin from Michael, "Though, if you were escaping one, I fail to understand why you'd come to the city of lovers."

Michael shook his head, "No, nothing like that. I've always been into France and all; I was reading Proust when all my classmates were analyzing Romeo and Juliet. This girl though, Zoey, she was kind of a bad seed. If I were to write a novel, one character based on my interactions and what all I'd known about women, I'd have no reason to include her."

He chuckled, thinking over his words, silently, "Maybe if I wanted to have her killed off by chapter three."

Amélie watched him, her eyes slanted in a sort of fierce curiosity at his description, as he continued, "She was, uh… Okay, I'm sort of a hopeless romantic, right? Well, for a college student like I was at the time, I didn't have much of anything to offer her besides little things, you know? I was always there for her, I made sure she woke up to sweet messages, all that shit. We weren't ever anything, officially, but I…. Thinking back, she knew more about me than anybody else. I'd opened up so much of myself, she truly was the first woman I'd loved, but she never felt the same."

He laughed at himself, incredulously, "I knew she was more material and all. God, I spent so much on her, trying to make her happy, but it wasn't ever enough. And, like…I'm not the kind of person who loves something half-way, like her. I love with, hmm."

He pounded his fist into his hand for emphasis, "I love with everything I have. Most of my life, there is no middle ground."

Michael grinned boyishly, as if it were so easy to say, "So, probably good that I wasn't one of your family. I'd have killed myself learning to ski professionally or something."

He chuckled, though Amélie remained still, causing him to clear his throat and continue, "Anyway, she got a boyfriend. Wasn't me. I tried my best at being just her friend but, you know, doing that hurts more than making someone happy makes you feel good. He was this real sleaze, too. Some dangerous dude who wouldn't ever amount to much outside of a prison yard, right?"

Michael chuckled, shaking his head at how silly his story was, "So they end up getting pregnant, being all kinds of careless and all. He didn't have anything of a career outside of a retail store, and she didn't have much. She had the audacity to tell me that _she'd_ be fine, because I took care of her. She basically wanted me to finance her and her man."

"That's when I said I was out," Michael shook his head gently, grinning darkly, "Burnt the bridge. Of course, being so close to somebody, you don't simply walk away from something like that. I learned that then; guess some lessons you just have to make before understanding them."

He leaned back in his seat, his hands still held in his deep pockets, sighing in relief, "So, you see, I'm not exactly thrilled about offering my heart, or my number, to anybody. at least, not for a while. A long while. I know I can trust myself, so that's what I do."

He nodded, slightly, "And my cat. I can trust her, too."

Amélie's face turned down, still curious, though with respect to his downcast tale, "And that's why you shipped out here as soon as possible?"

"More or less," he smirked, "Doing my best to just change my world and start over. I saw that a secondary school in France was hiring English-speaking teachers, so I went with it. Took me thirty minutes to figure out how to say 'Champ Elysees' correctly, but I made it."

He smirked, teasingly, "Was told my French wasn't bad this evening, so I'd say I'm doing well."

Amélie gave a half shrug, checking her pocket watch again, which led Michael to follow suit.

04:00.

"You needing to get out of here?" Michael asked, receiving a slight nod in reply, "Well, I'm done here myself. Headed out to your car?"

Amélie tilted her head, "That's quite an assumption."

"I suppose," Michael grinned, rubbing his arm before beginning to stand, "I'm headed to the train, myself. One good thing about tourists, the trains never stop."

Amélie paused, halfway out of her seat to answer, "I live nearby here, but I have to walk near the station."

Nodding appreciatively, Michael asked, "Well, would you do a stupid American another kindness and help add some company to his stroll?"

Before she could answer, he was already arm-deep into his long pea coat, "I still don't know what performance you're putting on next."

She stood up, clutching her coat, which Michael slowly took from her, allowing it to fall near the ground as he held it open to her, Amélie silently accepting the gesture until she had it on, "This does seem an awful lot like you're trying something."

He shrugged dramatically, "Really? Look, I won't lie and say you aren't a pretty girl, but I have manners and basic human decency."

He felt the stare of the waitress, which cut him off, his face sinking in dismay. Amélie, however, only shrugged, seeming to accept his request as the two made their way toward the entryway, Michael following along and reaching over her to hold open the door.

"Just for experiment's sake," Amélie spoke up, pulling her coat tightly against her chest to shield herself from the cold, "I don't think I'll tell you. My next performance, I mean. Just to see if you act any differently, now knowing that there's zero chance you'll be seeing me again."

Michael eyed her, mischievously, "Is this a game?"

She shrugged, a tiny grin appearing slightly across her face, "I may be brash, but I know fun."

"Fine," Michael agreed, "Then I'll play my own game. By the time we part ways at the train station, I'll know where and what you'll be performing. Okay?"

As sure as she was that the sun would rise, Amélie was sure she could say no when that time arose. It was the same "no" her parents always offered her whenever she wanted any ease of her rigid lifestyle.

Quietly, she agreed, only because she had her own sort of game to play. Michael smiled as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, taking his first steps alongside Amélie, finally noticing her lengthy violet hair, blowing into the breeze toward him, suddenly kicking up and brushing softly against his face. She seemed completely unaware of this, but Michael quickly slowed, picking up his pace again as he now trailed alongside her on her opposite side.

"Your hair kicks, too," he smiled, glibly.


	3. Trois

Both their hands stuffed warmly into their pockets as the Parisian winter tried to overtake them, Amélie and Michael walking briskly into the night, down the avenue where the train station sat. Michael was rather familiar with the route; he actually walked it to and from work every day, though it wasn't far away. He always looked at the café with curiosity, every day; it just so happened to be the result of a chase that he finally visited.

As they walked, Michael was able to take slight glances toward her without much movement tipping her off to his voyeuristic attitude. Her legs were incredibly long and slender, and her strides often took her farther along than Michael's own legs took him, despite being taller than her. He might have intentionally slowed his steps, he finally thought, at one point as he admired her from behind. Even covered heavily by a thick coat, she still had a elegance to her, her hair trailing down to her scarf, trailing down her back, down her coat.

"Where do you teach?" Amélie asked, her breath blowing in the slow wind.

"Hang on," Michael retorted, "I can't know a theater, but you can know my school?"

She eyed him, blankly, "I know I won't just start showing up to harass you. I'll leave you be after tonight."

Michael rolled his eyes with a wry smile, remembering his "game" here, though he decided to tell her, "The Lycées de Rueilly. Not the most prestigious place, but the kids are bright, and eager to learn, which, by itself, makes the job that much better. No French when they come into the classroom, just English, and they all have a fun time teasing each others' accents, especially when I put on American television to demonstrate different dialects."

Amélie muttered lightly, in her own accented English, "[A fine example, I'm sure.]"

Michael grinned at her show of perfection, reverting to French, "Not bad. You must do a lot of traveling."

She nodded lightly, "More so as a child. Our little troupe toured around Europe and we stayed in London for a few months, putting on shows. Not my fondest memory; I actually passed out during one show and nearly derailed the entire production."

Michael turned to her, concerned, as she continued, "My parents were so upset. I still remember listening to them over the phone and simply hanging up. I didn't want to deal with them anymore, not with how miserable I was at the time. I went for a walk. Took quite a bit of strength to turn opposite the way toward the bridge."

It took him a moment to realize what she was saying, his eyes dropping in empathy as his voice came out quiet, "Why did you pass out?"

"Spiders."

Turning back up to her quickly, Michael spoke up, incredulous, "Spiders?"

Amélie grinned, the first time Michael recalled her doing such a thing, her legs stopping as she stood there, silent. The two had to make their way through a small park, and there they stood, two souls, surrounded by just the slightest hint of foliage in the area, covering enough of the nearby light that Michael could tell it had become darker. Her violet hair turned black now, and her cold-looking face seemed almost like stone.

"In that world, when I was child, perfection was everything, right? It was like trying to fit myself into a marble statue- each corset meant to mold me into the same shape, each orthodontist trying to make my teeth the same pattern as the perfect-looking person. It got to where I learned to simply remain still, forever, lest I put something out of place."

She looked over toward Michael, seriously, "I sat in the wine cellar, the only place where I could be free to twist around or sing for fun, without forcing my throat to constrict. I could laugh without father telling me how stupid it was to listen to; I could even cry, without mother telling me how ugly it sounded."

"Even there, I couldn't escape that sense of rigidity. We had spiders down there, that I had to become acquainted with in order to remain there; I was rather afraid of them at the time. But they'd sit there, still… They wouldn't move a muscle, like me."

Michael could feel a shiver run down his spine as her voice became slightly more lively as she discussed this, though her face remained still, "I noticed, though, when they pounce on their prey, caught in their web, they become so…alive. They jump, they spin, their legs move like well-oiled machines. It was just so…"

She hunted for the right word, her brow wrinkling as she thought hard, though it was Michael who offered a suggestion, in English, "[Intoxicating]?"

Amélie thought the word over, her tongue rolling in her mouth, lips closed, as she silently spoke the word, her tongue rolling around in her mouth like a spider rolling around its prey. Finally, she nodded, slowly, finding the word acceptable.

"Yes," she nodded, pleased at the word, "[Intoxicating]. It's a good word."

She looked down at her hand, which she'd pulled up toward her, watching it carefully, critiquingly, before offering to Michael, her voice still, "What do you see?"

Michael looked at her hand, confused, but he slowly took it with his own hand, warily, concerned she might use his touch as a reason for kicking him again. She did no such thing, However, leaving Michael to bring her hand up to his face. Her fingers outstretched as he examined her skin. Her hand was almost silver, its whitened was so bright against her black clothes, and as he continued examining her, he just happened to notice the thin discoloration between two fingers.

"It felt pretty nice," she admitted, "They would have killed me if I'd done that anywhere they would have noticed. It almost was like a game; doing what I could to ruin what they kept imagining was a perfect body they'd constructed and spent years refining. It made me feel like the spiders, almost, though I was preying on my own body."

Michael ran a thumb down the inside of her finger, down the lengthy scar, almost running it along its length as she pulled back, almost as if on instinct. He watched her hands as her other one held onto the one which had been in his just a second ago, his face full of worry.

"Do you-"

"No," she interrupted, "I was a teenager then; I probably was feeling five different things a day. Though, I still reflect on it, almost daily. Every time I put on my uniform, actually."

"So that's why you passed out?"

Nodding, she confirmed, softly, "I have some blood condition; I can't make enough, at least not when I was spilling it so often. So all that physical activity just got to me."

She shrugged, "I may reflect on it, but it isn't something I enjoy discussing."

"Sorry," Michael weakly nodded, "But I understand.

Amélie spoke up then, "So, what's the skeleton in your closet? I mean, besides unhealthy attachments to other people, of course.

Michael chuckled slightly shrugging, "I don't know; I'm pretty normal, I guess. My parents weren't perfectionists, nor was I. Just…normal."

He shrugged, thinking, as he turned to continue walking, Amélie following along beside him, briskly, as he finally mumbled, "I'm pretty clumsy. I mean, if I tried out a pirouette, it'd probably result in me ass-up in the orchestra. Not a very flattering sort of thing; I have very little to offer, really, if you get right down to it. Like, in your case, you were sort of forged into something, for better or worse, but I'm kind of just 'meh'."

Smirking as he rolled his head back and forth, "I often think of, you know, my future and all that, whether or not I'll end up with somebody. I often think about how I couldn't ever forgive myself for not giving a future wife the kind of person that she can just take her breath away."

Michael eyed Amélie, sidelong, "And now you think I'm nuts. or too much of a woman, perhaps."

She only shrugged, though he could tell that her face had picked up into a smile, "No. In some deep place within myself, I think it's a bit sweet to think of that, but I'm not like most women, so I don't know."

"Not most women would accept to help a total stranger," Michael chuckled, "Then again, you may have just wanted to hit somebody."

She held still for a moment before nodding, "The thought did cross my mind. Not often you're given the chance to do so, especially when you're a "prim and proper" lady."

Michael grinned, noticing the train station approaching the two just ahead, "Well, who knows; maybe be you'll be lucky enough to sort of do your own thing; do stuff that's not becoming of prim and proper ladies."

"Okay," she replied, dryly, "That was certainly a pass at me."

Laughing, Michael shot back, "Was it?"

Her eyes as unamused as her voice, Amélie went on, "Trying to lure me back to your place. I know your sort of game."

Michael grinned, "The only game I'm playing is the one where I find out where you're dancing next. I assure you, I have no interest in… Okay, well that just makes it sound incredibly rude."

Thinking for a moment, Amélie couldn't help the odd sense of enjoyment at watching him attempting to not trip over every word, though it was short-lived, as he simply shrugged with outstretched arms and a defeated tilt of the head, "I got nothing."

"I know what you mean," she assured him, relieving him greatly, "Just long as you don't kill me off or anything."

It took him a bit to recall, but he soon remembered, dispelling the panic settling over him, "Oh! N-No, not at all. You seem like a legitimately good, if not quite unique, woman. Very mysterious, at that; that woman I mentioned earlier, you could've noticed ill-intent a mile away. I was just blinded."

"So I could be just as bad, but as long as it's not obvious?" Amélie asked, a bit wryly.

Michael cocked a sort of innocent grin, "See, I'm not even adept at figuring out flirting."

She smiled suddenly, almost mischievously, "I wasn't, but just for reassurances sake, I was definitely joking."

Nodding, he looked on to the station, "Not that it matters much, anyway. This is where we part."

Michael stood there for a moment before noticing that Amélie had paused. He turned toward her, her eyes running up and down his body as if sizing him up. Subconsciously, he straightened himself under the scrutiny, his face blank as he tried to figure out what was going on. Slowly, however, she suddenly took a step toward him. then another. and another.

When she came right before him, she reached a hand up and around his head, her hand chilling his neck, though it soon dissipated as the closeness ran a tremor of heat through Michael's body. She lifted herself up, just missing his face as her lips came close to his ear.

"The Palais Garnier. or the Opéra Bastille. Next weekend," she whispered, "I'm playing Flora."

She pulled away, her face as white and as still as the snow beneath them, "There's eight shows between the two of them. Figure it out."

Michael carefully ran the information back through his head, desperate to keep it contained within his mind, "You really enjoy these sorts of games."

"This way I don't lose _this_ one," she grinned, lightly, before turning to walk off, her hand quickly retreating back into her deep pocket, reminding Michael of her touch just a moment ago.

Suddenly, she stopped, turning around and speaking up to bridge the distance, "That woman. Do you still not like her, despite at the time since then?"

Michael lowered his head, smiling mournfully, "Yeah. Though I know that, if she needed something, desperately, I'd still help her out."

He shrugged, "It's a sort of sick loyalty. A privilege belonging only to the first girl who had me, no matter how superficially."

"You'd better watch out for the next one, then," Amélie advised quickly, before turning and going on walking once again.

Michael couldn't help but smile, albeit somewhat sadly. Longingly. He certainly wasn't interested in anything beyond what he had, currently, but still. Thinking along those same lines, he realized how little friends he had outside of his school, and he certainly knew nobody who he happened to click with so easily.

Despite spending the last few hours so freely with someone else, he bad never felt so lonely.

He sighed to himself as he heard the train approaching, turning to make his way onto the station platform. He had already forgotten the feeling of her hand on his neck. The cold had already bitten him there, numbing him even to the memory. He stepped onto the train as it arrived, sitting there, alone, leaning against the wall, staring out into the darkness outside.


	4. Quatre

Michael carefully stepped through the mass of people attempting to crowd into the Palais Garnier, ducking through different groups of theater-goers. The ballet wasn't nearly as popular as it had been, say, a few centuries ago, but along with Amélie Guillard, a few other troupes sported incredibly talented dancers, bringing some more notoriety to the art. Amélie, indeed, was massively popular in higher society, so it wasn't too difficult for Michael to solve her puzzle; he could figure out the production easily enough, anyway.

She was to play the lead in this production of Flore et Zéphire- a play about two winds, Zephyr and Boreas. Boreas separates the two, stealing Zephyr's wife, killing Zephyr with an arrow before the muses bring him to life, punishing Boreas. They then tie Flore to Zephyr so that they may never again be parted.

Michael flipped through the rest of the program after reading the synopsis, noticing a page of coupons for a nearby ice cream parlor. He was familiar, somewhat, with the play, or at least its characters, though hadn't ever seen it before. His brow furrowed at remembering their little quips about another production and how it could, hilariously enough, relate to the two of them, his lips crawling into a humored smirk as he considered the ridiculousness.

The play itself was incredibly strenuous, with Amélie being required to perform 'en pointe' for most of her dancing, that is, on her toes. Michael remembered her story of performing in London, a sense of dread falling over him. He leaned over, reaching into his pocket for his phone, opening up to search for anything about the incident.

Sure enough, it was rather big news, though as he scrolled down, the name Amélie Guillard brought up some recent news reports. As he scrolled along to read them, the speakers of the theater picked up, a boisterous voice taking to the air to speak up, loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for attending this production of Flore et Zéphire at the historic Palais Garnier, featuring Pierre Depaul and the ever-amazing Amélie Guillard as Flore! Before we begin, the Palais would like to welcome a most esteemed guest to its balconies- ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Gérard Lecroix, second lieutenant of Overwatch!"

Michael quickly looked up from his phone in surprise as the theater erupted, a spotlight running the length of the audience before rising up a wall to a balcony, Gerard rising to his feet as he bowed to the attendees with a smile. Michael watched him curiously, hearing something about Overwatch, but he quickly returned to his phone, opening up more articles about Amélie. For some reason, she'd had a bit of news as of late, Michael thought.

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Palais Garnier, it is my absolute pleasure to formally announce the engagement of Monsieur Lecroix to tonight's own star, Amélie Guillard!"

Michael's face froze just as his eyes met the headlines- "Lacroix and Guillard rumored to be engaged!" "The wedding event of the century! Lacroix finds his muse!". His eyes rose just as Amélie made her way out on to the stage, bowing to the crowd before rising as waving to her fiancée, her face still motionless as she did so. Gerard did much the same, his face beaming at the sight of her, though Michael's was contorted in confusion.

As the applause died down, Amélie left the stage before Gerard took his seat, leaning over to speak happily with some of the people beside him. Michael eyed him curiously, returning to his phone as the lights began to dim in the theater. His thumb moved quickly to find out about this man, but the woman sitting beside him shot an elbow into his arm, signaling him to put his phone away, leaving Michael with a sigh as he leaned back in his chair.

He knew he wouldn't be enjoying this.

* * *

Michael leaned over the table of the small café that, just a few nights ago, he'd run into, hiding underneath his coat in this very booth. The steam from his coffee rose into the air, almost catching his face it was so turned down, mostly in thought. After the ballet, he hadn't much to do, so he somehow found himself here, figuring that, despite seemingly being a regular, Amélie may not bother showing up again where they'd met, at least not so soon.

He sighed as he leaned back in his booth, swiping through his phone from news article to news article, all proclaiming the engagement into the high heavens. His lips curved distastefully as Gerard's superficially happy face, which contrasted amazingly with Amélie's incredibly stony expression.

As his eyes wandered, so did his mind. Why didn't she tell him that night? Hadn't they fumbled around a curiously flirtatious line at some point? Hadn't she told him some deeply personal things? Sure, she had no expectation of them meeting again- though she told him, basically, where to find her- at the Palais Garnier.

He sighed, drowning in confusion as he took a sip of his coffee. "This is why I don't bother with other people" he thought to himself, placing his mug down as he leaned his head back, closing his eyes in thought. She _was_ beautiful, he thought; despite his lack of intention, perhaps he was just taken into some odd jealousy at 'missing out' or something- he wasn't sure. His eyes even rolled behind his eyelids at the stupid thought.

"Company?" a woman's voice suddenly appeared, Michael's eyes quickly opening as he saw Amélie standing beside the table, watching with an utterly uninterested look as though she would be taking a seat regardless of his answer.

"Oh, uh, sure," Michael quickly replied, sitting up straight from his nearly laying atop the table, pulling his shirt down from it being wrung up his torso.

Amélie undid the buttons of her woolen coat, holding it against herself as she bent down into the booth, pulling her legs underneath the table as she turned, speaking up in English to begin with, "[Practice went long], so I figured I'd stop by for some coffee."

Hearing her English, Michael's ears perked, staring at her curiously until she explained, simply, "One of my colleagues spent a few years touring the States, so she knows a thing or two."

She properly folded her coat before laying it beside her, speaking again in English as though the content of her words was unknown to her entirely, "[Yippee ki yay, motherfucker]."

Michael bent down to the table, looking around with a look between undying embarrassment and endless amusement, grinning to hide a laugh as he carefully looked at the other patrons, none of them seeming to have heard her, "You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"I was told it was to signify great enthusiasm," Amélie explained, blankly, though with a slow cadence that showed how unsure she was now.

Michael laughed, "Okay, that's sort of correct, but that's certainly not something you say outside of hardcore action films."

Seeming to be disinterested, now that her knowledge had proven to be slightly useless, Amélie rolled her eyes with an unamused grimace, "Last time I help her on her pirouettes."

The waitress walked over as Michael finally reigned in his laughter. Looking up at the waitress's rather displeased face, he quickly leaned backward, recognizing the same woman from the other night. Despite her contorted face, she remained watching him, pad and pencil in hand, waiting for his order.

"Uh… Just some tea for me, thanks."

Amélie looked up to give her order, but Michael went on without her, not having stopped in the first place, "-And she'll have a coffee, with…just one thing of cream, correct?"

She stared at him for a moment before nodding, looking up to waitress to offer her thanks before returning to her guest, "Nice trick."

He shrugged, "You ordered it more than a handful of times last time."

"Speaking of," Amélie immediately retorted, "Your meaning of those words aren't the same as mine. Why are you here?"

Michael had wished this hadn't been brought up, seeing as how he was the one going so far out of his way to be here in the first place. He admitted to himself that sitting at the same table was a rather stupid move, but nevertheless, he was the one extending his presence to her, not vice versa.

"I guess I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance is all," he answered, partially truthfully, "You looked great up there; I mean, your expression was sort of odd at first, but I though it sort of fit after I got used to it."

She shrugged, shaking her head modestly, "It wasn't much of anything, though thank you for your words. As for my expression, they don't call me 'cygne larmoyante' for nothing."

Michael ran through his French quickly, immediately recognizing "swan" but only after a round or two of conjugation did he come up with, "Tearful Swan?"

"I've never cried on stage," Amélie noted, almost cluelessly, "So I'm not sure why it is. I've been told my neutral face is just sad-looking, but it's just me. I was told to refrain from facial movements to avoid wrinkles."

Nodding, remembering her pedigree, Michael smiled, "Yeah, sort of like how my neutral face looks like me frowning. It usually keeps people from asking useless questions from me, so I can't exactly complain. I assume you receive a like response?"

"I used to get a lot of 'are you okay's' from the other members at first, but eventually, they just got tired of me saying I was," she shrugged, nodding to the waitress as two mugs were sat between the two of them.

Her lips curled up at one side, noting her indifference, "It's not like it bothers me; I'm sure there are other names that are much worse."

She reached down to grasp her mug, bringing it to her lips for a sip of coffee. As it fell away, her tongue stretched along her line of teeth, unknowingly, until she froze, just then noticing Michael's smirk. Her tongue retreated back behind her teeth, lowering her head in annoyance, hiding a scowl.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Michael claimed, easily, though Amélie was not convinced, her eyes peering up at him, dryly.

"If I'd known of your intentions to simply tease a defenseless woman, I'd have given you up to that street tough," she groaned, shaking her head with a royal air, "I suppose its my own fault."

Michael grinned, boyishly, "I suppose so. You were the one who all but invited me to your performance, you know."

Unable to retort, Amélie only looked on, cupping her hands underneath her mug, her face narrowed in indifference, almost trying to convey that she'd simply stopped listening. Michael chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he stared down at the table. He knew why he was trying to goad this woman- he was trying to see another glimmer of life from that stoney face.

"Congratulations, by the way," he murmured, quietly, catching Amélie's curious attention, "On your engagement, that is."

She eyed him scrupulously, unsure of his meaning in bringing this up so late in their conversation. He hadn't moved, save for a finger of his rolling up and down the mug between his hands. Still unsure, she figured she would take the bait and acquiesce, simply to figure out what he was thinking, so she went along.

"Thank y-"

"Why didn't you say something?" Michael interrupted, suddenly, though with enough passivity not to insist on an accusation, "Do you know how weird it is to spend so much time talking to a woman who's engaged to be married?"

Amélie's expression went unchanged, though her eyes grew noticeably more intense, "I can speak to whomever I want to. "

Michael look away, obviously distanced by what he'd learned at the opera, though Amélie didn't give him much time to sit on his thoughts before she continued, "Unless this has less to do about myself and my betrothed and more to do about myself and the other person at this table."

He looked at her incredulously, though he simultaneously realized that he had stumbled into being the one questioned, and although his thoughts were stumbling, his grasp of language helped steady his speech, "I already told you, I have no interest in-"

As her eyes watched him in scrutiny, he silently stared back for a moment before deciding she wasn't believing him at all, so he grabbed his coat, hurriedly making his way out of the booth, "Forget it."

Amélie sighed, shaking her head as she reached over, grasping at his coat to keep him there, "Just calm down. I wasn't trying to imply anything; I was just saying. I'm not unaware at the ease with which men see me or anything."

"Well now you just make it sound like we're animals," Michael groaned, throwing his coat back into the booth, a bit annoyed that he remained here.

"But I speak the truth," Amélie muttered, referring to earlier, which forced Michael to groan as he leaned back, looking away.

He shook his head, "No, no. I legitimately… Okay, if you asked me out, right now, I'd say no. Even if you weren't engaged, I mean- I honestly am not interested."

Looking off into the rest of the café, Michael curled his lips inward, inquisitively, "It's just, I- I hate to see a guy like that, so superficial, with somebody so, I guess, deep."

Amélie stared at him in her usual emotionless expression, bringing her mug to her lips, by now sure to leave her teeth uncleared, "I wouldn't exactly say it was my choice. To be honest, I see nothing but a façade of a man myself. But he's well off, a high ranking, well-respected man within Overwatch; my parents were very quick to push me along when he inquired about "their ballerina"."

She shrugged lightly, "I wouldn't say it would be unbearable. I wouldn't have to worry about much; I'm sure he'd be too busy, so I'd simply be alone anyway to pursue whatever I wished."

Michael leaned over his own mug, grimacing as he leaned down to take a sip, barely having to pull the cup from the saucer as Amélie finished, her voice hollowed, "But you wouldn't consider that as much."

He smirked, raising his stare sardonically, "You're asking the opinion of a hopeless romantic?"

Amélie let out the faintest of smiles, taken by his ability to recognize the amusing aspects of his own character, "I suppose I should have figured that from the start."

"So that's why you figured you take me for a ride?" Michael accused, distastefully, though Amélie only scowled back at him.

Her voice was cool, "Under no circumstance would I do such a thing. You're an intriguing person; I figured you deserved to see a performance of mine in exchange for an entertaining conversation."

She leaned over, speaking now with an almost devilish whisper, "Don't forget. You're here, now, because you sought to run into me. Not the other way around."

Michael remained hunched over the table, lowering his head as his thumb ran up the handle up his mug, slowly. Amélie only leaned back in her seat, pulling her own mug up for another sip, appearing as demure as ever, as if nothing had happened. The waitress walked by, speaking to Amélie, who carefully stared down at Michael before answering.

"Just a small slice of cheesecake, please," she answered, plainly, "He's had a rough night."

The waitress nodded before walking off, though Michael remained how he was, only lifting himself back up all the way in his seat with a massive sigh, his hair now slightly messed up by being enclosed within his arms. He only catches her curiously as she lifted her mug again, eyes closed, allowing him a further examination of her carefully still face, not a single muscle ever out of place.

"I thought you didn't eat cheesecake," he murmured, still in a slightly foul mood, "You'll be the one eating it anyway."

She shrugged simply, "I only eat it after successful performances. Still, you should indulge anyway."

The waitress returned with the cake, lowering it gently to the table, leaving two forks, both customers thanking her before she left. Amélie went along, taking a bite as if nothing was wrong, though even if there was an issue, she'd probably remain as such anyway, Michael figured.

He took a bite himself, still reluctantly, not expecting her to speak up as he chewed, her voice a bit warmer than he was used to, "So I'm deep?"

Michael eyed for just the briefest of moments, almost thinking she was saying something rather odd, but he quickly remembered his earlier words. He groaned in reply, looking away as he dropped his fork on the saucer.

"Where are you taking this?" he wondered aloud, leaving Amélie with only a sincerely innocent shrug.

"You just don't know much of anything about me," she explained, solemnly, "I'm curious as to where you get that idea. That I'm deep. I've spent quite some time with that man, Lacroix, and I'm fairly certain he couldn't say the same."

Michael replied, "What, you two don't talk?"

"I suppose we do," Amélie shrugged, "He's very- How would I say… We go out, together, more so than sit and talk, to these big affairs and gatherings, meeting all kinds of people. Not exactly my cup of tea, but he was so keen on showing me off and making merry with all these higher-ups."

She reached over for another forkful of cheesecake, "I'd been conditioned, my entire life, to not smile or make any such expression. But he kept telling me to look presentable, personable. It was already a foreign world to me- it was like he was introducing a whole other language on top of it as well."

Michael nodded, solemnly, "I get it."

"Do you?"

He grinned, "I keep to myself all the time. I hate big crowds, or at least I did; you compare facial expressions to a new language, which I can understand- social interaction really is a whole other language. What, did you not have friends outside of your family growing up?"

Amélie flashed her eyes up toward him, pithily, "I believe we're getting off topic, sir."

He lowered his head to hide a mischievous smile, "Sorry; I'm not good at complementing single women, much less engaged ones."

"I only asked a question," Amélie replied, more as a complaint, as if she was truly wanting to understand what this man, or any man, for that matter, thought of her, "Why do you think I'm so deep? I hardly ever offer any expression, I barely talk, I've been told I'm confrontational; for god's sake, the first time you stumbled upon me, I kicked you repeatedly."

Michael covered his face to hide his quick laughter, turning away to be polite, "That's right; you _did_ do that."

He shrugged as he returned, taking his turn at the cheesecake between them, "I don't know, they say still waters run deep, right? You're about as still of waters as there can possibly be. That, and you're a ballet dancer- I watched you writing poetry up there on stage as you danced. That's not something many people can do."

There had been only a handful of times in her life that Amélie could ever even believe she was recalling that she'd blushed. This was one of those times.

She quickly lowered her head, embarrassed, not moving any further beyond that. Michael watched her, amused himself, but didn't bother to say anything about it. He simply reached down for his tea, took another bite of cheesecake, waiting for her to recover.

He was probably expecting something within the vein of a 'thank you', but as Amélie's head returned to looking at him, so only muttered, "Come on."

Confused, Michael followed her body as she twisted out of the booth to leave, "W-Wait, what's-"

"Just come on," she repeated, leaning back for her coat, pausing as she realized what she could have implying, staring at him with a scowl, "I'm not taking you to a hotel, bête."

Despite understanding this without having to be told, Michael sighed in relief, though his confusion remained, "I figured, but where are we going?"

Without a reply, he simply gathered up his coat, following Amélie to her feet. She reached down to gather the small purse from her pocket, though Michael had already grabbed for his wallet. She swatted at his hand, but he persisted, grabbing out enough bills to pay for his tea and half the cake.

"Offer me this kindness," he argued, blandly, "You already know how I feel about this."

Amélie rolled her eyes, leaving her own amount, before starting toward the door with Michael following behind. Stepping out into the snarling, frigid cold, Michael quickly pulled the opposite ends of his collar together around his neck while Amélie simply wrapped her scarf around her.

"It's not that far of a walk," she explained, "Are you frightened of abandoned buildings?"

Michael stared at her silently, his mind racked with confusion, unable to reply with much else than a benign, "I, uh, don't think so."

"Good," she finished, starting off in the same direction they'd gone the last night they'd left this place.


	5. Cinq

Amélie carefully crouched through the shattered glass pane of double doors, emerging inside the large school on the other side. She turned as Michael followed along, taking his hand to keep him from possibly falling onto the glass-covered ground as he maneuvered his larger frame through the door.

"Sure we're supposed to be in here?" he asked warily, looking around the dark walls of this abandoned building, "I mean, outside of the law, anyway, it doesn't seem like the safest place."

Shrugging, Amélie retrieved her hand from his, stuffing it back into her deep coat pockets, "We're close enough to the city, so it should be fine. It's my old school as well, so I can't believe anybody would say anything."

"Old school…" Michael mumbled quietly to himself, "Like a prep school?"

She nodded as the sound of crumbling glass broke the air, "Pretty much. My parent made sure I received the best education I could."

She puffed out her chest, her voice an angry emulation of her father, "You must, Amélie! Your mind must be as sharp as your turns! As broad as your horizons!"

Groaning, she went on as herself, "Honestly, it was grating."

"So I assume your experiences here weren't the best?"

She thought for a moment, silently, before answering, "I mean, it wasn't bad. I enjoyed my peers, most of my teachers. To be completely honest, it was rather nice to get away from my parents. They were very…overbearing, as you know by now. This place was a nice escape until some stuff went down and they had to close its doors."

"Yeah," Michael noted aloud, examining the various water fountains, doors, and walls that made up this hallway, "It doesn't look too old at all; I'm surprised it looks like this."

Amélie didn't respond, at least not to his comment, but she did ask, curiously, "What was school like where you're from? America, I mean."

Michael shrugged, "Eh, it was… Well, it _was_."

He turned to her, grinning, "Funny enough, I think our roles were reversed. School was your escape from home, but home was my escape from school."

"That bad?"

"I mean, it could have been worse, I guess," Michael chuckled weakly, "I've heard stories from other people. I don't know; being ostracized doesn't always take a physical form. I was the weird nerdy kid; I got made fun of a lot, kept to myself, never had a girlfriend. I had a nice group of friends, though; we even still talk on occasion."

He thought for a second, "I don't know. I enjoyed learning, but when it came to my peers…"

Michael sighed heavily, lowering his head, "Okay, you've revealed enough about yourself, so… There _was_ a girl."

"Hmmm," Amélie mused, turning to him with a quick smirk, "So the plot thickens."

Michael laughed, "It's nothing like that; we didn't go out even. I just though… I mean…"

He groaned, rubbing his face nervously, "Okay, she was beautiful, alright? And me, being the socially inept dumbass, figured I'd write her a letter, you know; I mean, speaking wasn't my strong suit -it still isn't, really- but I figured, you know, whatever. So I gave it to her, you know, but I didn't ever hear back. The next day, her friends in our class started making fun of me and…well, her as well."

Amélie pattered along, listing intently as the two rounded corners further into the empty school, her gaze lowering as Michael sighed, "I mean, I'm pretty tough -at least on the outside- so I know I can handle being made fun of, teased, or whatever. What hurt more than that was that she had done nothing but be within the eye of the beholder and she was punished for it. I never quite forgave myself for that, nor did I ever really recover from it. By the time I did, I was too old, and any woman I could have been with wouldn't have wanted somebody so socially inept."

"There's a song back home, 'My Own Worst Enemy', and that's pretty much what I am," Michael mused quietly, almost humorously, "I know that's nothing like the years you spent at home."

"No, but in your case, it might as well be," Amélie shrugged, "Everything that happens to us is magnified."

Michael nodded slowly in agreement as Amélie came to a stop, the two staring down a long corridor of dorm rooms. Her expression changed little as her eyes ran down the walls, her throat drying up as she stood there. Michael could tell something was up, if only because their conversation had ended so abruptly, though he didn't push the issue. He didn't know why he'd been brought here, but he figured it was something big- something you wouldn't tell anybody you knew you'd see again, in that same anonymity.

Slowly, Amélie took a step forward, the ground crinkling beneath her feet as her head suddenly shot down, her eyes tracing the outline of a shattered flower pot. Michael approached her side, scooting the debris out of the way with his own foot.

"Watch your step," he muttered cautiously.

She nodded, taking another step forward, then another. Finally, her eyes locked onto a specific door, the fifth on the left, her heart sinking as she approached, though her face remained still. Michael's, on the other hand, visibly dropped as he noticed her staggered movements, almost feeling the need to hold onto her to keep from falling.

Finally, she turned into the dorm room, staring into the empty room, save for the wooden frame of a bunk bed and a few other worn pieces of furniture. She inhaled, though the breath was audibly haggard, leaving Michael with an unquenchable curiosity.

"Was this your room?"

She nodded, "Yes. Mine and Claire's."

Amélie stepped into the room, cautiously avoiding the further debris on the floor, "She was my dearest friend here. We were first years at the same time, and other than faculty, we were the first student the other had met."

She grinned, only slightly, not a single wrinkle upon her face, "I guess you could say it was the two of us against the world early on. We branched out as the years passed, but every night, we returned here, like two sisters returning home after years apart- not a single minute seeming to have gone by without the other."

She noticed the mattress still in place, bending down to clear it of the leaves and dirt that had accumulated there, turning around toward Michael and sitting there. Her guest remained at the door, leaning against the frame as he watched her, his hands still caught deep within his pockets.

"We grew up together," Amélie explained fondly, "One summer, she came back to school with this god-awful hairdo, and she was so incredibly worried about the other girls seeing her, she cried and cried all day, skipping all her classes. I stayed up until four in the morning with her, just trying to comb it out for her. I guess, at some point, her tears just dried up, but she just decided to thank me, over and over, in their place."

Michael had begun to smile at the story, "You two still talk?"

"Not really," Amélie explained quietly, her eyes shifting away, "None of the girls who came here… None of them really talk to the others anymore."

He remembered her mentioning something of a controversy, his face lowering in thought as he pondered it over. He could tell that Amélie had no real desire to explain it, so he dug out his phone, working his way to a news story or something that could have enlightened. He certainly hadn't heard anything from the faculty at his school.

It didn't take long at all, his eyes widening as he looked up toward Amélie, her face darkening under his gaze as her voice wavered to life, weakly, "Monsieur Michel. We all knew it was him, coming into different rooms at night and…you know. It was the kind of thing that everybody knew, but never spoke of- I mean, this was a prestigious school; your family spent a lot of money for you to be here, so we all just pretended. We all just prayed, that it wouldn't happen to us."

Michael suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck sprout up as a chill ran through his spine, Amélie turning to look down at the mattress she sat on, rubbing it gingerly, "This was Claire's bed. I mean, we shared it all the time, it was barely ever just _her's_. We'd watch movies down here or draw or, you know; just that kind of stuff. The last day before third year let out, we even sat on here together and worked our fourth year classes out to finally get some of them synched up for once."

"I went home and, at some point, told my parents what was going on," she explained, slowly, a quivering working throughout her body now, "My mother, she…"

Her hand carefully curled into a fist atop the mattress, her forehead furrowing into a slightly angry look, "She told me… She said that this was a prestigious school, that it would take me places no other school would. That if one of the teachers wanted to do that to me, I should just put up with it and think of my future."

Her words had become a slight growl by the time she'd paused, but as if her anger had simply coalesced into some quivering mass of emotion, she began to cry, pulling her hand back to her body as she hunched over, shaking. Michael was quick to walk on over, sitting beside her and wrapping his arms around her.

"God," Amélie muttered, shaking her head, "I hate her so much. _Them._ But I just keep…fucking doing what they demand."

Michael wasn't sure of what to say, though he hoped that simply holding her was action enough. It seemed to be the case as her tears stopped, though she remained leaning forward and in Michael's arms, her overwhelmed heart beginning to calm itself.

"Early that fourth year- I remember it so vividly, and I hate myself for that fact. One night, the door handle clicked; that alone woke me up. I was so terrified, I couldn't move; I didn't even bother leaning over to see who it was. I knew, but couldn't bring myself to do anything that might…"

Michael's eyes narrowed. The guilt she must have felt, he thought; his own body doing its best to remain still despite his own trembling will. As though facing a phobia in order to overcome it, Amélie's voice wavered, but still went on, heart-wrenchingly so.

"I still crying as quietly as I could, my tears feeling like flames running down my voice. I covered my head with my pillow, but I could still hear Claire crying herself, whimpering in pain, doing whatever she could to not draw attention to the horrific event going on. It must have torn her to pieces. She wasn't ever the same after that; eventually somebody got the word out and the school was closed, never to reopen, before I was made a victim myself."

She sighed, shaking her head, "You know, I spend more time thinking about Claire than I ever do about my parents. They could disappear and I wouldn't put much thought into it. But Claire did disappear from my life, and I can't help but feel torn in half because of it."

"Thankfully," she added, soberly, "If anything came from it, I decided then and there that my parents could dictate so much of my life, but they couldn't ever dictate what I do with my soul, my body. These things I claim for myself. So when you say that I write poetry with my dancing…"

Her head lifted only slightly, though not toward Michael, her voice barely a whisper, "That's me you're complimenting. Not my parents deciding my teeth, my face, my education. The things I _do_ with what's mine, my body, that's all I have that's mine."

Michael watched her carefully, slightly unsure of what to say, though he went on anyway, immediately feeling like an idiot, "So why marry him?"

Amélie immediately broke into a slight laughter, lifting herself up to loom at him, "You really were lying about being interested, weren't you?"

"No," Michael reiterated, staring off begrudgingly.

Amélie sighed, shrugging his arms off from around her, "All things considered, he's not at all a terrible choice. He's well-respected, wealthy, safe."

"But?" Michael finished for her, a dark look spreading over her face.

"But," she continued on her own now, "The last thing he'd ever be interested in would be everything _you_ seem to be."

The two suddenly grew quiet, the air around them growing tense. Michael wasn't able to feel the tone, which seemed to be a constant battle, given Amélie absolute lack of outward emotion- he could rarely tell how she was feeling. Even now, she simply sat there, silent, staring forward at some point on the floor as she slouched over.

He slowly began to push himself up from the bed to stand, when suddenly, a hand grasped onto his coat, keeping him seated. He slowly looked back toward Amélie, who'd taken to staring up at him, her face still red from her crying earlier. In this winter air, her face had seemed almost like snow with how white it was that. Her emotions painting her face in red, it now seemed so full of life.

Even now, Michael understood very well what was running through the air, and despite her grasp, he shot up to his feet, taking just a step away before turning back toward her, nervously, "Okay, uh, I think it's getting late, so..."

Amélie's stare nearly burned through his own eyes as she replied, "I was only going to thank you for taking the time to listen to me."

He only laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head as he looked away, Amélie rising to her feet as well, "You know, for somebody so intent on reminding me of your disinterest, you certainly have a lot of conflicting thoughts, Michael."

For whatever reason, her speaking his name caused a pang of something within Michael's heart, though he only groaned, "Should I apologize?"

She shrugged, grinning, "I told you I was aware of the effect I seem to have on men, didn't I?"

Michael's head dropped in defeat, "Yes, and there seems to be nothing more terrifying than a woman who knows such things."

Amélie hid a grin as the two made their way toward the door, "So you're right about two things. It _is_ getting late."

Michael sighed, relieved, "Yes, indeed. In fact, I think it's already-"

He paused as he slid his phone from his pocket, clicking its screen on to illuminate the time, "Yes, very late."

Dropping the phone into his deep coat pocket, it let loose with various soft sounds- crackling, jingling, among another assortment of sounds. Amélie looked down at his pocket, curiously.

"What all do you have in there?"

Michael shrugged, "Just pocket litter. Let's see… I've got-"

He slowly began pulling out various bit of different small objects, holding them up to examine them, beginning with an old franc piece he'd found on the ground somewhere, "Actually, that's been in here a while. I guess I become sort of a packrat whenever winter comes around."

Amélie smiled lightly at the thought, watching him dip back into his pocket as they walked along, the next object appearing to be paper-like, "Well, here's a movie stub. 'Le lit de la vierge'. Huh; I had no idea I'd been so pretentious."

Michael went on digging as if nothing out of sort had occurred, though Amélie turned to hide only the slightest of blushes, pulling her hand to her face in an effort to cool her blood rush to there. Happy that he'd been going along, she finally gave an inaudible sigh, returning to him as her embarrassment left her.

"Ah!" Michael suddenly exclaimed, finding something he apparently had known simply by touch.

He removed his hand, carefully grasping onto a small pendant that seemed to once belong to a necklace, given the small ring molded to the top of the design, a distinctive 'M' shape with the rightmost edge curling up into a sort of tail- the kind of thing you could recognize easily by touch.

"This ended up in lost and found, stayed there most of the year, so when school let out, I figured I'd keep it," Michael explained with an innocent shrug, "I don't know; it's just mesmerizing, don't you think?"

He handed to her, Amelie's voice immediately imparting her wisdom in an instant, "It's Scorpio. The symbol of it, that is; that's my zodiac sign."

"Huh," Michael nodded, "I can't even remember mine- I know I was born in the year of the horse, that's about it."

"This is different," Amélie muttered quietly, still examining the piece, scrutinizing it, "I don't swear by that stuff or anything, but I sort of went through a phase when I was younger. It's…just interesting is all."

Michael nodded quietly, "With your parents the way they were, I'm not surprised you were trying to find an identity for yourself."

Amélie looked up toward Michael, who turned away nervously, "I-I mean… you know…"

Yes. I do," Amélie replied, plainly, still holding the silver piece in her hand as they walked, "Again, an insight my betrothed wouldn't be expected to observe."

Michael could feel his heart tug whenever such an idea crossed his mind, though he would quickly reassure himself that such things as "me and her" weren't ever in the cards for himself. It was a crushing reality hed known for years now, and nothing would change that. Whenever such a possibility arose, there was always _something_ there. In this case, it was _him_.

Quickly trying to find an alternate state of mind, Michael hurried toward another topic, "So, uh, tomorrow would be your music day, right? With the viola, I mean."

As if planned, Amélie replied, "Not tomorrow. I'm actually to attend a shindig with my betrothed to celebrate our engagement."

"Oh, yeah," Michael replied, half-heartedly, much to Amélie attention.

She mused carefully, "I know that isn't what you enjoy hearing, but I can't keep the truth hidden."

"I know, but-"

Michael paused, suddenly realizing his faux pas, all but admitting what he thought of this woman, though as his head swung toward her, she only smiled, gently, "It's okay. I know."

He groaned, rubbing his face, "Okay, that's it for tonight. I'm just- Wow, do I ever need a drink."

Amélie lowered her head, hiding her amusement at his behavior as her hand reached over to return the piece she held, Michael's voice suddenly popping out from beside her, "Keep it."

"What?"

He smirked, "Come on; you've held that thing for, what, five seconds and it already means more to you than it ever did to me. I just thought it looked cool; it's actually your sign after all."

Amélie lowered her arm in acceptance, quietly speaking under her breath, "Thank you."

"Well, I mean, thank you," Michael confided, "It was pretty neat seeing this place, despite, you know, all that bad stuff. And, you know, thanks for telling me so much. It means a lot to me to know somebody trusts me with so much."

"You certainly sound like a Scorpio," Amélie mused, teasingly, "When's your birthday?"

"November 5th."

She smirked, lowering her head forebodingly before nodding, "Got it."

Michael stared at her, questioningly, "Well? What does that mean?"

"You're gonna have to look it up; I'm not telling."

Sighing, Michael reached down into his pocket for his phone, but Amélie's hand suddenly swooped along stuffing itself alongside his within his pocket, leaving the two bound together within such thick woolen fabric. Michael's heart immediately raced, the temperature rising quick enough that he almost felt as if he were steaming. He slowly met her eyes, staring back almost playfully.

"Wait until tomorrow," she spoke, quietly.

He tried to reply, but found nothing but a lump in his throat, so he only nodded hurriedly, his face scalding beneath his blush. The skin of her hand was so soft, he thought; forcing himself to battle every tendon in his hand that so easily wanted to clasp around those fingers. He almost felt a sweat breaking as his mind strained, desperately, feeling a load fall from his shoulders as her hand slowly escaped from his pocket.

"O-Okay," he stammered weakly, finally able to keep himself together, "T-… Tomorrow."

He would take any bit of her into tomorrow as he could, though he knew the aching that would come from that being so bitterly incomplete.


	6. Six

Amélie stared down at her body, clothed elegantly in swirls of different fabrics, almost trapping her inside this contraption known as a 'dress'. She hadn't ever particularly minded wearing dresses, though she noticed, quite readily, that they increased dramatically in both style and price once she'd been told that she'd be seeing Gérard Lacroix, a high-up lieutenant of Overwatch.

She hadn't even known the man when her father telephoned her at ballet practice, explaining that the man had seen her dancing at her last performance and, "by the stars and heavens above" had to request to see her. Her father was much too proud of this statuous man calling on his own daughter to even wait for Amélie to return home, leaving the dancer standing still, awe-struck, in the middle of practice, causing quite the concern from her peers.

Now, just a few months later, here she stood, on the opposite side of a door that would lead out into a grandiose ballroom, into a crowd of people she didn't know, announcing her engagement to this man.

Her brow took on a rather slight upturn of worry as she suddenly turned around, eying the nearby bathroom, seriously considering another look at herself, not wanting anything to be out of place. She found it odd that she took such things so seriously, but despite not knowing too much about this man, this Gérard, she still, at the very least, respected him and his accomplishments.

He was known as having a 'large' personality, and indeed, his boisterous personality lit up most every room he stepped into. It was such a contrast between him and Amélie, in fact, that many people, upon hearing the news, laughed at the idea. The Tearful Swan alongside this magnanimous man? Really?!

Despite these social perceptions, the two were rather compatible. While Gérard was a natural leader, lending to his rapid ascent up Overwatch's ladder, Amélie was very much a follower oftentimes, unless she was required to step up. Those times came infrequently with her new fiancée, however, though she didn't mind being more subordinate as long as she was given her precious alone time, which, being an important figure within Overwatch, Gérard was all but required to offer, given his time at work.

In fact, this shindig was the first time they were to see one another in quite a few weeks. He had just returned from a mission, and in preparing for yet a other, this was, quite literally, the only night he had available for this.

Amélie took a step away from the door, toward the mirror she was sure was hanging in the bathroom, but the sudden slam of a door above the staircase prompted her to immediately return to the door, nervously praying that she was in proper shape to be seen by so many people.

She heard a rapid patter of footsteps as she turned her head toward the stairs, seeing Gérard rush on down, carefully, checking his watch as he rounded the bannister, "Right on time! Oh, mademoiselle, you look absolutely ravishing! Though, I surmise, I shan't refer to you as such much longer!"

He gave a hearty laugh under his breath as he approached her, eyeing her dress top to bottom, "Comfortable?"

"Not particularly," Amélie replied, annoyingly, as she twisted her limbs to fight against the enclosing fabrics around her.

"It shan't be too long, do not worry," Gérard answered with a smile, flexing his shoulders, "This outfit isn't exactly 'freeing' either. You'll look stunning though! Everybody's eyes will be on you, my cygne; you'll forget all about the tethers that bind you!"

Ignoring the obvious irony of his statement, Amélie slowly felt herself freezing nervously at the thought of everybody staring at her. She'd been told there wouldn't be too many guests, but…

"How many are attending?" she asked.

Her fiancée shrugged, "I'm not aware; perhaps a hundred or so?"

Amélie's throat immediately dried as her eyes locked onto the broad wood of the door, not helping her to relax in the slightest. Despite her fright creeping in around her, Gérard turned to find one of the house keepers, waving her over and speaking to her lowly.

"Make sure my saber is prepared, my dear."

The housekeeper nodded before walking off quickly, leaving Gérard to return to his rough stance as he stood up straight, pulling his coat down to assure himself of his flawless appearance. Finally, he turned to Amélie, her eyes still wide as she stared at the door.

"My cygne, do not be afraid!" he assured her, jovially, reaching over to wrap an arm gingerly around her shoulders, "Trust me. It will only last for a moment, then we'll just be another pair in the crowd. Look, just…"

He thought for a moment, finally smiling as he continued, "Just think of someplace else. Take your mind off of the crowd; they're not even there."

Chuckling beneath his breath, Gérard gently patted her on the back, "Remember when we danced the last time we were together? Just look at me; everything else will disappear."

Amélie sighed lowly, dropping her head, "You put up with so much from me."

He clutched at her shoulder, leaning his torso toward her, "My dear, for such a beauty as you, nothing is how you describe. I enjoy your demeanor; it's quite calming compared to the hectic world with which I live, and I couldn't be more joyous that you will soon be part of it."

Massaging her shoulder, he nodded his head graciously before returning to his proper stance, "Now, I believe our time is approaching!"

Amélie still remained slightly miffed, though she tried her best to remain calm. She managed a sidestep toward her fiancée, pushing up against the side of his body as though for some sense of support, though he only whipped his hand up to check the time. She quickly shoved a hand somewhere within her dress, pulling out a handkerchief, hiding her face as she ran it across her teeth, just to be sure.

Gérard seemed to notice, though didn't say much more than a quick, "Your teeth are already perfect mademoiselle; does that even work further?"

"I know it doesn't work," she mumbled, "But I do it anyway."

He shrugged below a sure smile, holding his arm out as the voice of a man came from the other side of the door, the bustling from the crowd suddenly fading into nothing was, "Ladies and gentlemen!"

Amélie's heart raced with nerves as she directed her arm through Gérard's, allowing him to pull her close before the two stepped toward the door. His opposite arm reached out as he gripped the handle, turning back toward Amélie with a soft smile.

"I couldn't be happier to have you at my side, Madam Guillard," he spoke gently, his smile easily something out of a painting.

She nodded, but before she could reply, the crowd suddenly burst into applause, whoops, and hollers, giving Gérard the signal to open the door, presenting himself with his fiancée.

They stepped out into the next room atop a grand staircase, the floor below flooded with people happily applauding and shouting various noises of approval. Gérard immediately bent low into a grand bow, with Amélie following along, slightly late, as if too overwhelmed to remember that was what they'd decided to do upon entering. She followed along at Gérard's side as he led her down the steps, the applause growing loud as they approached the bottom of the staircase, the string quartet suddenly beginning to play a delightful tune.

Between the shouting, the clapping, the music, her own thoughts, Amélie was left, more or less, clutching onto her fiancee's arm less for show than to simply remain upright, remain at his side rather than run off to hide.

As they left the flight of stairs, they were surrounded by smiles and congratulatory pats and hand shakes. Amélie did her best to keep up, and she was rather content that her fiancee's boisterous attitude often deflected the attention from her.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, quieting down the crowd, "Thank you all for coming! It means a great deal to myself, and my fiancée, that you would all attend on such short notice! As you can see from the beauty beside me, I seem to have walked into multiple dreams this evening!"

This earned a collecting laugh from the crowd, alongside Gérard's own grinning chuckle, "Anyway, as you all know, duty calls; I'll be returning to Overwatch within the week, sadly. Thus, and let me tell you, it wasn't difficult!, my bride-to-be and I have decided to move the wedding up, to be held within the coming days."

A bustle began to spill over all of the guests, a mass of confusion running over them as they all turned and stifled whispers to one another, trying to understand, but Gérard only laughed, waving them all down, "Now, now, have no worried, ladies and gentlemen. This is best; we didn't want to put anybody out when it came to gifts or appearances. It'll simply be a small thing, you needn't worry."

The bustle lessened, remaining only in small pockets as Gérard quickly looked around, hunting a glass with his open hand until, finally, a guest simply handed theirs to him, "Ah, thank you, vicomte! Now, let's not allow this night to waver, ladies and gentlemen; may I raise a toast?"

Everybody raised their glasses into the air, leaving Gérard with a wide grin as he looked down at Amélie, whose stare met his, the man's arm raised high as his voice just barely reached over the crowd, "To my bride-to-be. May her beauty never die, and her soul never weaken."

"Hear hear!" cried the many voices in front of them, everybody availing themselves with their drinks, Gérard taking a sip before offering the fluted glass to his fiancée, who turned it down, gingerly.

The crowd returned to a bustle as the music began again, spouting a fanciful tune into the room. Gérard handed his empty glass to a butler before taking Amélie's hand into his, along with it being wrapped around his arm, guiding her through the crowd, stopping only to speak to the different people who came to them.

"Monsieur Lacroix!" shouted one man, rushing to them, "Oh my, and the mademoiselle! Why, you're plenty more stunning in person, might I say! Your fiancée's words do no justice, I assure you."

Amélie stood there, still silent in overwhelming nerves, as her husband-to-be laughed, "Come now, Leandre, you're going to make me look bad!"

The two enjoyed a laugh, though Amélie's wandered away into the crowd. She had never been a fan of being the center of attention, or watched, or surrounded- the exact opposite of the life her parents had sought for her. She had always wondered why she was so much more comfortable when performing ballet in front if people, finally figuring that, on that particular stage, she wore the façade of a character, whereas, here, she was simply herself, baring her true self for all to see.

She almost felt a shiver down her body, but silently fought it off before it ran down her arm, not wanting to ruin Gérard's perfect night on account of her own nerves. He was happily conversing, having the time of his life, even if it seemed to be so whenever he was surrounded like this.

"Gérard! My good man!" came the voice of another man, breaking through the crowd with a woman in tow, presumably his wife, "Look at you! Why, last time I saw you, you were recouping in the hospital, and now, here you are in all your regality, standing alongside a lovely lady!"

Amélie almost physically felt herself fall further into herself as she was mentioned, though Gérard quickly laughed, reaching over to shake the old man's hand, "Rest assured, dear friend, if Talon couldn't take me down while I was single, imagine how futile the effort shall be when I've got such a beauty awaiting me!"

The three men shared a chuckled, the woman giving Amélie a sincere smile, "I can tell just by looking at you, dear. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

Amélie nodded gingerly, though she knew she didn't believe her kind words. The wife smiled at her again before joining the three men in conversation, going on about something, somewhere. Amélie could easily feel herself shrinking into nothing within the crowd, and by the time the couple had begun to leave, she reached over to hold her hand atop her fiancée's arm to get his attention.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

He nodded with a smile, "Go on! This party is for you as well, my love. Besides, it gives Leandre a chance to recount his wily conquests!"

The man scoffed as he leaned over to laugh, giving Amélie a chance to pull away from her fiancée, walking rather quickly toward the restroom, not wanting to be stopped by anybody before she could get a chance to catch her breath and her sanity.

The door swung closed before she finally took a deep breath; the noisiness of the crowd having dulled behind the wall, giving her mind at least some amount of space to think freely. Even if those thoughts were of little, it was still important to her to at least know she wasn't constrained by the draining crowded noises.

She walked toward the sink to wash her hands, enjoying the cold sensation running over her skin, especially since her face had been burning so intensely behind her makeup for the better part of the event. She shut her eyes, simply keeping her hands underneath the faucet, feeling her mind ease up, though it wouldn't last too long in this peace.

Turning to the bar that held the towels, she found that there weren't any for drying her hands. She sighed, though figured it may have been for the best, if anything; offering her a greater chance at recovering some of her energy. She held her hands away from her as water trickled down her fingers and down into the sink, her face staring at herself in the mirror.

Suddenly, the door broke past the threshold, the loudness from the ballroom suddenly bursting into this peaceful place as a tanned woman laugh happily while entering, shaking her head in disbelief. The door swung shut as she finished up her laughter, still shaking her head, working her way toward one of stalls.

"Lo siento," she spoke with a wide smile, "Sorry about the intrusion."

Amélie nodded at her through the mirror as the woman walked on by behind her, entering a stall before shutting the door behind her. While unappreciative of the sudden burst of distractions, Amélie was happy to return to quiet, lowering her head as her hands had dried enough, she figured she could finish wiping them off on one of the darker bits of fabric that rolling around her dress- she didn't much care for it anyway.

She wiped her hands off, carefully, though one caught a suddenly ripple within her dress, her eyes narrowing curiously until she realized what it had been. She remained still rather frightened at her own thoughts as she reached through the fabric of her dress into a small pocket that had been seen in, her hand working around her phone until her finger suddenly stroked the cold silver of that pendant Michael had given her.

Oddly enough, it calmed her, thinking of those nights simply being lost in the city, in the darkness- though that's was scared her. She hadn't been alone at all during those times. There'd been another man there; the one who'd given her the very object her finger was tracing in her pocket.

She jumped in shock at the lock of the stall door suddenly shot a high-pitched grinding sound into the air. She immediately whipped her hand out from her pocket, turning back toward the mirror, her heart racing from the surprising noise.

"Sorry," the woman spoke up, her voice full of lively energy, "I didn't mean to startle you or anything."

Amélie shook her head, "Oh, n-no, you're fine. I was just heading out is all."

She quickly collected herself before spinning toward the door, hastily heading out, leaving the tanned woman behind, washing her hands. This woman, whom the guests she'd been conversing with had referred to as Esmeralda, grinned as she lathered her brown skin, rinsing as she eyed herself in the mirror, frowning as she noticed her hair.

She reached back behind her, pulling out a small towel from a pocket within her dress to dry her hands, dropping the clothen rag as she leaned over the countertop to fix her appearance, still frowning, "Odio esto a veces…"

Running her nails through her hair, which flowed down only one side of her head, through strands of raven locks before meeting with amethyst ends. She quickly stood up straight, pulling her hand into the air, a technological tentacled network of components lining her hand as a screen suddenly projected in front of her, her lips twisting in intrigue as her index finger clacked on a virtual keyboard.

"Alright, amiga," she muttered to herself, throwing her hand behind her head, the screen immediately vanishing into thin air.

She grabbed the towel she'd had on her, walking toward the rack beside the sink, carefully returning it to its proper place, straightening it out for the next patron of this sink, before leaving the bathroom herself, entering that loud ballroom once again.

Esmeralda took a quick look around, feeling a small electrical pulse on the back of her hand, the components atop her hand acting as a sort of compass. She headed right through the crowd, the sound from the quartet helping drown out the beating of her heart, which increased with each step.

She knew what was out there, or rather, whom. She kept an eye out, wary of the one man in this place who could recognize her.


	7. Sept

Michael slumped over the table almost lifelessly, staring blankly at the single franc coin he had been fiddling with in his hand. He sat it on its side and spun it around, watching it, unamused, as it lazily spun in a hectic circle for only a moment before falling to the table with a clanging sound. He sighed, looking up toward the top of the wall at a hanging clock, before returning his attention to the old coin, spinning it once again.

A light snow had begun to glide down to the ground outside the windows, catching his attention as his eyes slowly turned toward the large pane of glass that wrapped almost around the whole of the café. The rapid wiggling of the coin atop the table slowed before it made a dull thud, hitting its broadside down against the wood. Michael turned his hand to lift it up again, but froze as his eyes noticed the visage of Amélie seeming to be standing in the window, staring sidelong into the café at him.

His eyes shut for a few moments before opening again, as if in an attempt at casting away a dream, and sure enough, by the time he looked again, she'd disappeared. Of course, in that moment, he noticed a blur of a figure rounding the corner toward the door, sure enough, the body of Amélie Guillard stepping into the warm café, gently yanking off her scarf.

Her expression seemed slightly more unamused than usual as she approached the booth where she'd already spent two nights with the man already sitting there, his body slowly lifting up from the table as he slid the coin along with him, watching Amélie curiously enough. They didn't speak as she stopped above him, folding her scarf and staring it atop the table before pulling of her coat, revealing most of her flamboyantly designed dress which immediately caught Michael's eye, though not exactly in a good way.

"One could assume you live here," Amélie quipped, "Judging by how often you're here, that is."

Michael eyed her sardonically, his voice dry, "And one could assume you were truthful when you said you had an event this evening."

Amélie sighed as she took a seat, "I did. It's still going on, actually."

She pulled her phone out, checking it to find no reply yet, shutting it back off and placing it on the table, "It's just very much out of my element for one so quiet as me."

Michael nodded, "You know, I _did_ think it was odd. It must be a relief on stage to hid behind a role and express yourself through a character."

He toyed with the coin in his hand still, staring down at it as he spun it between two fingers, his eyes peering up at her from his downturned head, "You know, for somebody so prepared to tell me how I feel about you, you certainly leave very little to the imagination when it comes to the opposite."

"Oh really?" Amélie answered, more as a challenge.

Michael nodded, "You just can't help but keep coming here, for starters."

She rolled her eyes, "Excuse me; I believe this was _my_ place before you decided to invade it. I'm merely returning to my favorite care."

"Surely you knew I'd be here tonight," Michael shrugged.

Amélie's eyes scorched his own as she stared him down, "And what exactly are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing really," Michael answered innocently, returning to playing with his coin in his hands, "It just bothered me how you so blatantly figured you'd dictate my feelings."

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. He looked off toward the door, his arms stretched out across the table as he relinquished the piece in his hand. His palms fell flat as his chest grew in his exhalation, finally turning back toward Amélie with a slightly despondent expression.

"You truly are a terrible type of person, you know."

"Excuse me?" she replied quickly, slightly offended by the statement.

He leaned toward her over the table, "I didn't want this. Especially not with an engaged woman. Yet you led me on and waited for forever to explain that, I'd say, major fact?"

His back met the padding of the booth as he leaned back again, massaging his face with his hands, exasperatingly, "And, god damn, you had to be amazing. Fuck."

Amélie's face softened as she listened to his words, though she had grown slightly annoyed with his insinuations, which she voiced as much as she replied, "So you're blaming me for your feelings?"

He groaned, pulling his hands down, "Of course not; I'm just-"

"Because it's a gad damn shame that I lack the venom to blame you for how _I_ feel," she interrupted, angrily.

Michael watched her for a moment, their eyes meeting before he ran his hand through his hair, sighing quietly before going on, "Sorry."

The air grew quiet, almost awkwardly so. Amélie quickly recognized the usefulness of a mug of coffee for just these sorts of occasions, and wished she'd had one ordered. She tried stealing a glance up toward Michael, just barely noticing him slouching into himself, his arms hanging down under the table as remained there, quietly.

Thankfully, a waitress arrived with two mugs, recognizing the both of them, and still giving Michael a rather disapproving stare, though he looked up at her with the same sincere smile as always. Amélie couldn't get to her drink fast enough, though still politely brought it up to her lips, assuring she didn't make eye contact with Michael as her head tilted backward.

She realized just how comfortable she was with this man; had it been her fiancée, she wouldn't have dared snap back at him in such a way. She felt a twinge of guilt, though even that began to fade as the two of them lost themselves in their respective drinks.

Lost in her thoughts, Amélie ran her tongue across her teeth as she lowered her mug, her eyes shooting up toward Michael as she realized what she'd done. He only grinned, somewhat mischievously, causing her to sigh as she sat back in her seat."

She rolled her eyes, repeating what she'd said to her fiancée just earlier that night, "I know it doesn't work; but j just do it anyway."

Michael shrugged as he brought his tea up to his face, pulling in his lips as he spoke, "Sounds like my "ex"."

Amélie could only remain dignified for but a moment before she leaned forward, laughing brightly until a quietly cute sort of snort broke through, her eyes shooting wide as her hands shot to her face in terror. She watched Michael, awaiting his side comment, but he only chuckled, smiling as he placed his tea down.

"Beautiful laugh," he admired, plainly.

She quickly blushed, lowering her head in embarrassment, almost as if to hide, but Michael gradually noticed her body shaking, this quiet, demure woman availing herself as her laughter continued. He couldn't help but join in himself, the two laughing lightly at the scene that had just played out before the two of them.

"Sorry," Michael muttered, dismissively, "That was uncalled for. The compliment, I mean."

Amélie eyed him curiously, "Why? It wasn't the first time you complimented an engaged woman; wouldn't I be the one to decide whether or not it's appropriate?"

She lowered her head mischievously, "Or do you not think I'm that loyal?"

Michael cupped his hands around his large mug of tea, staring down at its miniscule, rippling waters, running through cursory thoughts before slowly beginning to answer, "I think…"

Without raising his head, his eyes met hers like a mildly ashamed puppy, "I think you're as confused as I am about all this."

"Okay," she quickly shot back, "Then let's end the confusion, alright? I'm to be wedded in three days, forever bound to a man that isn't you. You seem to have some conservative views, but that in no way means that I'm forced to eliminate our friendship, correct?"

Michael thought over her words for a bit, sighing as he scratched his cheek, "Look, I-"

He groaned, running his hand from his cheek up and across his face, exasperated, "I don't know if you understand what this is like from my perspective; it-"

Pausing, his two hands ran atop his head as his body slouched forward, almost trying to hide as best he could before mustering the rest of his words, "I know we just met, but… It hurts to think of you with somebody. I don't know if we could be friends; I mean, I don't think so."

Amélie watched him curiously with only a slightly confused expression as he went on, quietly, "I don't know if you understand what it's like to be around somebody amazing, knowing that it's something that you'll never have. That's a kind of pain, you know, that's difficult to bear."

Dropping her gaze, Amélie's lips contorted as her mind wondered, silently, "I suppose I didn't understand. Would a similar thing be true, seeing you, knowing that I'm bound to a man who can't see beyond the shallow waters that you simply manage to traverse so easily?"

Michael grinned boyishly, "I suppose that would be similar."

Amélie slowly pulled her hand up, which bore her phone, placing the thin device on the table. She switched it on, sliding it over toward Michael for a view, his face darkening for only a moment before realizing what he was seeing. It was a text conversation; one where Amélie had let her fiancée, Gérard Lacroix, know that she would be leaving. There was no reply. In the margin for the draft of Amélie's next message, the words 'I love you' were typed there- though it had gone unsent, presumably because he hadn't replied yet.

Michael's eyes looked up toward Amélie, whose expression was one of loneliness, her voice carrying the same lack of emotion, however, "He's still partaking in his true interest back at the party. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but…"

She turned away, almost ashamed at speaking her next words in front of a man whose only partner had taken advantage of him, "Sometimes you just need somebody to be there. I don't think I'm too much to handle, you know; just a moment to let me know I'm…"

Trailing off as she noticed Michael's distant expression, she sighed, pulling her phone back toward her, "We're getting married in three days and not once have I ever told him I've loved him. This would mark the first."

She shut the phone off before spinning it in slow circles underneath her fingers, her voice almost a whisper as she went on, "Want to play a game?"

Intrigued, Michael sat back in his seat, "What kind of game?"

Amélie shrugged, "I've already hurt you, correct?"

Michael's eyes narrowed as he ran her words through his mind, examining each and every sound that she had uttered, "…in a matter of speaking. Not that it's your fault or anything; I'm the hopeless romantic who can't keep his heart in his pants."

Amused, Amélie chuckled behind her closed lips, shaking her head quickly to dismiss him, "So, if we spend a night together, on the town, wherever, it wouldn't hurt any more than it already does, would it? I mean, we still won't see each other again, according to you."

Michael lowered his head in thought as Amélie went on, "If my husband-to-be doesn't reply before we leave here, I'll walk you to the train station. Fitting, I suppose, since you escorted _me_ the first time we'd met. How's that?"

Silent, Michael's lips pulled together, forcefully, in conflicting thought. It was true, he thought; no matter what, whether they parted now or later, he knew his heart would ache regardless. Why not allow this dream to continue, if only for even a moment, he wondered.

"Okay," he muttered weakly before shrugging himself, "Why not?"

He reached over to grab his coat, scooting out of the booth, smirking, "I think it's time I headed out."

"That's cheating," Amélie grinned back.

Michael shook his head as he dropped his coat back beside him, "Like this game has a rule book."

Amélie carefully brought her mug to her lips, sipping at her coffee as her eyes closed, enjoying the aroma before her hands fell away, "We're trend-setters."

"I'm not sure engaged women engaging in such things should be a trend, but, you know."

Amélie smirked again, just as mischievously as the last, "So you wouldn't want your fiancée doing such a thing?"

Michael shook his head, "Well, I would assume I'd have given her no reason to have to do such things. But to be more specific, no; I'd want her all to myself. I'd make every moment magic, every meal delicious, every kiss passionate. We'd have no reason to not seek out each other's arms."

He smiled, lowering his head, "Everybody goes on and on about 'firsts' and all that, and how romantic that idea is. First kisses, first fucks, first…well, you know, all that stuff. But take it from a romantic; there's nothing more romantic than being somebody's last. She would be the last person I would kiss, the last person I'd hold. The last person I'd make love to. All that 'firsts' stuff is for kids."

Shaking his head, Michael began to laugh as he pulled his mug in for a sip of tea, "But that's just me; I don't know."

He gently sipped at his tea while Amélie looked on, distantly, lost in his words, before he went on, warmly, "That's why you hurt me so much. I could pull you in for a kiss, right now, get slapped, end up on a tabloid cover for kissing the fiancée of a renowned man; I'll never be your last."

He sighed, "I'm sort of an old soul in that respect, I suppose. One of the reasons I love Europe is just how old it is, how traditional, how easy it seems to be able to be transported to when chivalry was alive; when men feared tongues and pens as much as swords. When the world was so small, all you had was yourself and the woman at your side."

Michael's gaze has wavered as he'd lost himself in his own world, suddenly coming back to reality with a futile shrug, returning to his tea with a simple, "But it's now. I suppose I should be happy to be born late than early- at least I can look back on those times."

Amélie's head had dipped to where she could see her hands as they had worked their way under the table, her fingers entwined as she listened to him. She reached into her dress, into her pocket, lightly running her fingers over that silver pendant that signified his likeness to her, her eyes softening ever so slightly at the thought.

"[Hope]," Michael suddenly muttered in English, bluntly, forcing Amélie's head to whip up curiously.

"What?"

He reached over to the far end of the table, his fingers curling around a seemingly vacant spot before returning to him. He revealed his palm, a spider crawling around disjointedly across his skin, pausing, and then skittering off in another direction, only to have Michael reach his other hand in its path for it to continue atop of him.

"What was it; "araignée du soir, espoir"? Evening spider means hope?" Michael recalled, curiously.

Amélie frowned, "I believe it means that your night has been ruined by the spider, so you can be hopeful that tomorrow will be better, simply because there won't be a spider."

She eyed him critiqueingly, understanding their immediate comparison to her being the spider, given their previous conversations, though Michael only chuckled, "No no; take it from a French teacher."

"An _American_ French teacher," Amélie corrected, slightly teasing.

Michael nodded sardonically, "Yes, yes, I know. But in this case, the morning spider signifies grief; how can the night spider mean something similar?"

He eyed the cell phone, which remained still, "I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

Amélie's eyes closed as her brow jumped up in incredulity, bringing her mug for another sip, "Enjoy it. You won't be seeing any spiders in the morning, my friend, regardless."

Michael grinned at her rather playful insinuation, though it easily could have been taken as flirtation, "And what's with that, anyway? Aren't Scorpios, you know, scorpions?"

"They're both arachnids," Amélie shrugged, "And it's not as if I need validation. If I like spiders, I'll see myself in comparison to spiders."

She grinned only lightly, narrowing her eyes, "And, yes, I may not have a stinger, but I still bite."

Michael nodded sarcastically, "Yeah, with those legs of yours, kicking anybody in your path."


	8. Huit

The waitress leaned back where she stood, two mugs and an empty saucer that had once housed a slice of cheesecake in her hands as she turned to head back to the kitchen. Amélie reached up to gently scratch at her face before slowly reaching across the table to where her phone laid. With it in vibrate, she knew it hadn't gone off, as had Michael, though she still grasped at it with steady anticipation.

"Well, Mr. Michael Hale, I do believe I owe you a trip to the station," she spoke as she turned her phone on and off before shoving it into her pocket.

He grinned boyishly, hiding his face as he leaned over to recover his coat, "Should I be excited?"

Amélie's lips twitched into a quick smirk of her own, "Unless my face has changed drastically within the last two hours, I'd say you should be."

"Touché," he answered with a nod, "I'm not exactly used to having beautiful women at my side."

The two of them slid out to stand, with Michael quick to leave the bill, waving her off. Rather than refusing, as she'd done last time, she allowed him to go on before following him out into to burning cold. He quickly rubbed his hands together before pushing them down into his pockets, watching Amélie elegantly throw her scarf over her shoulder.

"Keep up at what you're doing and you should have more, as you say, 'beautiful women' around you," she spoke up, as if trying to impart wisdom onto him.

He shrugged as the two began to walk down the same sidewalk that they'd gone down the first night they had met, "Eh, I don't think so. I mean, I haven't changed, really, since high school; I'm still just sort of floating on through life though."

"How were you in, uh, 'high school'?" Amélie asked, curiously.

Michael cocked a smarmy grin, "Pretentious as fuck."

His companion fancied a small laugh as he went on, "Really though, I was that sort of guy. I'm _very_ happy I grew out of that, though; I don't think even _I_ would have wanted to hang out with me. But, in a way, it did lead me here to France, so I can't complain too much."

Amélie nodded in acknowledgement, "I do believe the first time we met, you had something similar to say about our Parisians."

"Oh yeah," Michael answered, gloomily, "That waitress wouldn't let me forget. I was just kidding around, anyway; I've enjoyed my time here."

"Better than back home?"

Michael smiled weakly, tilting his head to the side in indifference, "I mean- It's certainly different. It's kind of funny; people, just in general, are so different in their mannerisms- and that's not even something I would have thought that I would notice. Just little, tiny things; people being aware enough to move out of the way of others while shopping, or even differences in the amount of eye-contact."

"I guess I just picked things up at work, I don't know," he shrugged with a laugh, "It's a shame you haven't visited; I think you'd enjoy it."

Amélie replied evenly, "I'm sure I will; Overwatch sends people everywhere, so I'm sure I'll end up going there, and everywhere else, at some point."

She lowered her head as her lips contorted in dismay, remaining quiet enough that even Michael had noticed that she'd sort of zoned out. He didn't bring it up, allowing her a chance to mull over her thoughts, until she finally rose her head, almost with an angry expression on her face.

"Okay, this is going to sound like I'm a miserable human being, but my 'job' has always been school or ballet," she groaned, shaking her head in dissatisfaction, "So when I want to ask, "what was it like having a job", I don't want it to sound like I'm some uptight little b-"

"[Yuppie]", Michael finished for her with a smile, not wanting her to refer to herself in the way she'd been heading.

"Okay, [yuppie]," she accepted in English, "Whatever that means."

"Eh, 'cultured', 'high brow'; some would say snooty", Michael explained.

Amélie nodded, "So, pretentious?"

Michael chuckled, "Well, yeah, I suppose so. To answer your question, it was all well and good; it was just like your ballet- I mean, there's the same sort of satisfaction; I just get mine in the form of a paycheck, you in applause."

"You probably put in more work than I ever did, as well," he finished with a shrug, "You've only been doing that for most of your life."

With her, by now, signature expression, Amélie slowly stretched her arms out as she walked, closing her eyes as she rose onto her tip-toes mid-stride, walking along like that if she hadn't changed a thing. Michael grinned, impressed, as he nodded, watching her graceful strides, not missing a single step.

"Not bad at all," he muttered, her hand catching his eye.

She sighed contentedly as she returned to her feet, pulling her arms down to her side before quickly stuffing her hands back into her pockets, "Were I in my pointe shoes, I could do the same on my toes."

She smiled, proudly, looking up toward Michael, her face suddenly darkening as he watched her, his voice having dropped, "Have you, uh…"

Amélie's face must have looked confused, as he pulled out his hands, opening his fingers on one while tracing a line down the inside of one with his other finger, slowly, "You know…"

Understanding, now, Amélie shook her head, "No. Not in a long time."

Michael nodded in relief as Amélie spoke up, surprisingly calm with her words, "You know, I have scars and all from it. They didn't really bother me; I mean, not enough to get me to stop. When I did quit… I thought, maybe, somebody would see them and find me ugly, but even then, that thought didn't really bother me."

She shrugged, hurriedly changing the subject, "Do you dance?"

Michael shook his head, "I've got one and a half left feet, I suppose. If I got onto my toes, you'd find me in a hospital bed, I'm sure."

"Well, yeah, with that frame," Amélie teased, "You could be good at the tango."

Immediately, Michael laughed, "Yeah, I've seen the tango- you'd have _two_ people in a hospital room."

Amélie sighed, her shoulders sagging as she stopped, turning toward Michael, who followed in pausing himself, "Monsieur Marchand always said 'Anybody with ears can dance'. Come on."

"'Come on' what?" Michael asked, quickly.

Amélie reached her arms out, waving him closer, "We're going to dance."

Michael looked away, laughing nervously, "I think you've got-"

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," Amélie noted, "I believe you Americans know that one."

Groaning, Michael's body bent low in defeat as his head fell backward, finally composing himself as he approached Amélie, still shaking his head, "Okay, but if I step on your feet, there won't be any points for you for a while."

Amélie grinned wryly at his comment, taking his hands with hers. She brought one to her waist, now smirking as his face visibly became crimson once she'd done so. She took his other hand, slowly running her fingers between his, before extending it outward from the two, looking up at his eyes.

"You aren't looking me in the eye," she noted aloud, catching Michael off guard.

"Oh, uh," he stammered, "I don't… I don't do really do that. I thought the nose or mouth, nobody would tell the difference."

"And why don't you?"

Michael remained silent, leaving Amélie with a quick sigh, "If we're going to do this, you're going to have to look at me in the eye."

"And why's that?" he questioned, slightly annoyed.

She paused, not for dramatic effect, but more so because she could hear the words in her head, and truly didn't want to speak them aloud, "We need to lose ourselves in one another, you know?"

Michael stared at her, still noticeably at her nose at this proximity, "Yeah, uh, I don't really do-"

"Just-" Amelie paused, annoyed, but quickly softened her face into a tiny smile as her hand reached up, her thumb and ridge of her finger gently directing his chin, "It's not that scary, is it?"

His eyes suddenly locked onto hers under her direction, his breath immediately sucking in, staggeringly, his body tensing up, "It's the most frightening thing in the world right now."

Amélie's smile faded as he spoke those words, though her hand fell down to his shoulders, sliding down to his arm. Michael couldn't feel much besides whatever nerves happened to be full-on firing, the back of his neck tingling as he felt himself falling into those eyes. By the time Amélie had begun to sway, rhythmically, to either side, he had simply followed along, not even noticing his feet scooting along, entangling with her strides as the snowy ground beneath them tracked their every synchronized move.

"See? I told you," Amélie spoke up, quietly, trying to hide the nerves in her voice.

Michael didn't answer, in between his own quivering nerves. Amélie's lips turned up as she noticed him gently gulping down his breath as she spoke, finding it slightly cute how he acted, forcing her own nerves to waver slightly.

As if breaking a spell, Michael suddenly blinked, finally returning to himself as he did, his voice waking as his senses recovered, "O-Okay, I think that's good. Don't want to miss the train."

Amélie thought to argue so that they could move on, but decided against it, feeling a pang on something within her own heart by this point. She nodded in reply as they slowed to a stop, their outstretched hands disjoining as her hand slid further down his arm once his hand left her hip. It brushed down past his hand, her finger just barely clutching onto him before leaving him, her head lowered while Michael looked away.

Eventually, they began to walk once again, completely silent, save for the light snow softly crumbling beneath their feet. They had both warmed as they danced, and now that they'd parted, the winter air seemed so much colder in comparison. Michael would have noticed how beautiful the snow appeared to him, but his mind's eye had another scene burned into his memory.

Not wanting to waste their final time together, he quietly threw out a question, "You, uh… Are you keeping up with the viola?"

Amélie sighed, quietly, her face dropping, "Well, I never got anywhere in life by giving up. That, and-"

"And it's what you want to do," Michael finished, again, interrupting her.

She looked up at him seriously, forcing him to meet her eyes as he went on, "I mean, I'm right, aren't I? It's just one of those things you want to do so you can feel more in control. I mean, that's why you're walking me to the station, isn't it?"

Amélie scrutinized his face as she spoke up, "I'm just-"

"No, you're not just 'walking me to the train'," Michael laughed, lightheartedly, "You're choosing to spend your night with the man who fits who _you_ want, instead of the man your parents want."

He looked off, exhaling dramatically as he muttered to himself, excited, "Wow, it felt good to say that."

"Anyway," he went on, turning back toward her, "I'm not saying anything. I'm just, you know, like you said. I get you. But me getting you; that's not going to keep you safe, your secure, or whatever. I mean, maybe it'll get you a few pounds from us laying together on the couch, eating cookies and watching some movies or whatever, but nothing that will, you know; nothing that will give you the best life you could have."

He shrugged, "I mean, I'm just saying. I get it."

Amélie slowly lowered her head, speaking quietly, "And me getting you…"

Michael grinned, "I mean, nobody has gotten me anywhere near as well as you have."

The station came into view, and though neither of them had noticed, their paces had slowed along the way. The snow continued to fall, lining their shoulders and their heads as it rained down, slowly, allowing their footprints to remain, together, for most of the duration that they were together here. Amélie's lips curled into a dissatisfied frown as they approached the station, mustering up her courage.

"I think you're deep, too," she muttered quietly, echoing much the same compliment that he'd placed on her, "This whole week, you always managed to be there. I didn't even ask, or…you were just there."

Michael turned away, nervously, "Well, I mean… It really is your fault. Being all…captivating and everything."

Amélie managed a small smile, lowering her head, allowing Michael to go on, "Look, as long as our time together is coming to an end-… I just think you're an amazing person. And your fiancée is luckier than anything to have you. Hopefully he's also lucky enough to realize just the extent of how amazing you are, because there's so much more behind what anybody can see, especially with that expression of yours. I like the idea of you sort of hiding behind that face and me being the only one able to see past that."

He grinned, nervously, "I don't know; if I found somebody half as great as you, I'd count myself lucky."

They walked into the lights of the station, a long row of tile beneath them as they approached the platform, both quiet now. The train, which was more of a shuttle running around the city, came their way as the two of them stood, waiting. Michael managed to reach a hand toward Amélie with a smile.

"Welp, this is my spot," he spoke, happily, "It was quite a few days, I'd say."

"Indeed," Amélie nodded, "Quite a ride."

While miffed by her lack of interaction the last few minutes, Michael didn't think much of it. She accepted his hand, the two shaking hands warmly until the cold finally overpowered each of their grasps, forcing their hands back into their pockets.

The wheels of the train grinded to a stop along the rails, an automated voice going over the speakers as the doors slid apart, leaving it available for any passengers. Michael lowered his head, sliding his foot along the ground nervously, before reaching out to gently pat Amélie's shoulder.

"Good luck," he smiled, "All the best."

He stepped onto the train, turning slowly around to watch Amélie, who still remained despondent, far and away from saying much of anything. He could tell she was lost within the deepest regions of her mind, though he wasn't sure what she could have been thinking so hard about- he knew this was for the best.

She looked up at him, her eyes red as though she'd been on the verge of tears, though her face remained strong. Her hand clutched her phone within her pocket, her skin still pulsating from the vibration it had endured, more than likely from her fiancée replying to her. Finally she let it go as she eyed Michael, his face softened into sadness upon realizing just how close she was to tears.

"I'm not married yet. but I'm not going to leave with another man," she muttered, weakly.

Michael watched her, confused, still rather unsure of her meaning, when her arm suddenly lifted up toward him, offering her hand to him outside of the train. His eyes ran down her body, down her arm, fixed on her hand, opened from the palm, waiting for him to accept it.

"…so you're going to have to take me," Amélie finished, slowly.

Now at a loss for words, Michael found himself unable to move, unable to speak, even. All he could do was watch the niveous skin of that hand- how close he was to taking it, kissing it, doing with it whatever he willed. His heart tensed at the thought of what this all meant; how could he do this, he thought.

A buzz escaped the train's speakers, signaling its departure. Michael's eyes jumped up to meet Amélie's, her face having grown still once more, hiding the emotion she had, just a moment ago, so struggled to keep within her. The doors began to slide shut, running along the grooves of the door to meet together, Amélie's face suddenly furrowing in sadness as she was immediately, dishearteningly blocked off from the man she-

Michael's hand shot through the final few inches of space between the doors, clutching at Amélie's hand just before the doors clamped against his arm, suddenly shooting open alongside another buzzer. Amélie's eyes suddenly filled with tears as she smiled about as weakly as her rigid life had allowed her face to get. Michael immediately stepped out of the train, pulling her into an embrace as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest.

The doors slid closed behind them, attempting once again to complete their job, finally meeting each other before the train slowly crept forward, leaving two bodies on the platform, until the next train. Amélie pulled her head back to look up at Michael, her face stained with tears, though she was surprised to find that his eyes had also undergone the same sort of phenomenon, leaving the two of them shivering as they clutched one another, both their faces now much colder with their tears.

"Here," Michael muttered quietly, leaning his head down to kiss as her face, trying his best to warm her face while also clearing away her tears.

His lips crawled up her cheek, but soon enough, she threw her head to the side as while he had parted, making sure that his next kiss met her own lips, leaving them with no amount of feeling beyond that point on their faces.

* * *

A/N: This all played out a lot more eloquently when played out in my mind as a film xD "Danowsawa Filmmaking" coming in quite some years :p


	9. Neuf

Amélie's footsteps worked lightly along the second floor hallway of her small apartment, though Michael's were far more noticeable, despite his attempt at being quiet himself. He grimaced as he tried to manage, though even when he made a light step, the floor would give a loud creak, defeating his efforts.

He groaned, eyeing the floor beneath him, annoyingly, "It just is not my night."

Swiftly, like a young child being chased in a game of tag, Amélie's face spun around to peer at him over her shoulder with a sincere smile, "You're following a pretty girl home; are you sure it's not your night?"

Michael looked up at her, suddenly nervous, so he simply returned to watching his footsteps, silently, earning a smirk from Amélie as she pressed onward, taking more dramatic steps, still quietly, showing off her gracefulness. She had gotten so far ahead, even, that she had to turn to see if Michael was actually still following her before she would turn the corners of the hallway.

Eventually, they came to her door, having only awoken two dogs on the way up, the first one having forced a jump from Michael in surprise. He looked around at the old interior of the apartment building, but found it to be more cozy than tired. It reminded him of some old home that he'd read about- a remnant from one of those older times he was so fond of.

Amélie clicked open the lock and stepped into her place, allowing Michael entry as she stood by the door, closing it carefully and holding herself against the wood of the door as Michael admired the room, "Wow, it's certainly-"

He paused, noticing her action, and watched her curiously as she held her breath for a moment before pulling away from the door and straightening out her coat, "What was that for?"

Amélie pulled her coat down her arms as she answered, "You get some creeps following you home sometimes. At least in my line of work. I learned a long time ago not to open the door late at night, and always be aware of any stalkers."

She sighed angrily as she hung up her coat, reaching for Michael's as he held his out for her, "It's not a big deal, and it has only happened to me two or three times, but still. Amie, a colleague of mine, she had six guys following her at one point."

"Really," Michael stated, amazed.

Nodding as she stuck his coat in the closet, Amélie went on, "Yep. Had to get a "friend of the director", which is just a friendly term for a bodyguard."

She grinned as she turned back toward Michael, "I suppose you'd keep me safe tonight, though."

"I did get pretty far along the tae kwon do path," Michael explained, seeming to have missed that she was simply teasing, though it only allowed Amélie the chance to walk toward him and interrupt him with her arms reaching past his head, wrapping around his neck.

"Not the 'safe' I was thinking about," she clarified.

"Oh, s-sorry," Michael answered, getting flustered at her closeness.

She smiled, "You really haven't done anything like this before, have you?"

Michael sighed, "Well, once. I mean, I got close, anyway. I ended up with an escort, but I wanted to talk and get to know her a bit so I'd be comfortable. We ended up having dinner and that was about it."

He rolled his eyes, "Clearly I'm not an easy date."

Amélie laughed lightly, grinning, "Are you comfortable with me?"

"Oh, yeah, of course," he managed to speak past his rapid heartbeat, "It's just awkward- you know, when you miss out on dating when you're younger, you end up falling behind and no woman really wants that."

Amélie lowered her head, gently pressing it against his chest to hide her wider smile, "I haven't done anything like this myself, so… I guess it's sort of nice knowing we're both just doing whatever."

She paused for a moment as she pulled her arm back along his neck before her hand was in reach to slowly run through his hair, "I'm sort of a hopeless romantic myself. I know it doesn't show. at all. But I mean, I always wanted to do this with somebody I…uh…"

"You don't have to say it, "Michael confirmed, "Trust me; my mind and heart are playing about fifteen games of jump rope at the sane time right about now."

Amélie smiled, "Mine too. But I mean, in comparison to my fiancée… I can certainly say that I do. You've seen more sides of me than anybody else, including the man I'm to marry."

She leaned her body into him, just slightly, allowing herself to press against him as she suddenly breathed a hot breath against his chest, "Why not see another side that nobody's seen?"

Michael sighed at the thought, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against him as he buried his face in her hair from above, "You really are the most dangerous kind of woman."

Amélie's face fell, still hidden by his chest, though he went on, "I'm going to be so broken this time tomorrow without you, especially if we do this."

"Then do you-"

He suddenly clutched her tighter, cutting her off before reaching down to her hand and pulling it up to his face. She lifted her head as well, watching him curiously as his fingers wrapped around her wrist, his thumb pulling down her fingers until only her index remained, leaving him there to quietly eye the scars she had so delicately placed upon her pristine body.

"You're doing this because-"

"Because of you," Amélie interrupted, shaking her head, "Nothing else."

Michael nodded, though wore a skeptical smirk, "You're also doing this because, for once, you're using your body for yourself."

Amélie's eyes narrowed softly, earning a serious stare from Michael as he spoke, gravely, "Am I wrong?"

She sighed, "No."

"Alright then," Michael concluded, still hanging on to her hand.

Amélie lowered her head, disheartened, afraid that she'd be left here now. She felt her eyes grow dim with tears, but suddenly, her hand was lifted in Michael's clutch, his lips coming to the inner side of her finger, a kiss coming atop her scar.

"I dread to think of what you might do were you to be left without this," he muttered, quietly, "You've hurt yourself too much, so…for tonight, hurt me instead."

Her head jerked up to watch him, teary-eyed, but he grinned gloomy, tilting his head in defeat, "Come on, I can take it."

Before she could answer, Michael's head fell down to hers, his lips coming against her own as his hands ran up her body, leaving her only to rush to hold her cheeks, encasing her only in this man's warmth. Even the burning of her tears seemed non-existent now. Much like when his eyes were lost in hers, his lips were now lost against hers, and his body acted, again, on its own, more or less. He gently stepped into her, forcing her to step back until she was against the wall, her hands grasping onto his clothes as she relished at the feeling of being against only him, the cold wall behind her stinging her beside the warmth ahead of her.

Their lips moved awkwardly at first until Michael finally managed to close his two lips against her bottom one, sucking gently at it until a quiet sort of moan escaped from her mouth. He pulled away, already out of breath, staring back at her. Amélie's chest was pulsating about as fast as his was, though behind her flamboyant dress rested two gentle mounds that caught his eye, her heavy breathing almost moving them hypnotically.

She grinned, "I do believe you're hopelessly bound to something other than romance, Mr. Hale."

He smiled back like a schoolboy, his hands leaving her body as her hands pushed them off, "Don't pretend like you aren't either, right now."

Amélie smiled just barely, but it soon faded as her hands reached back behind her torso, her head leaning forward as if to hide, though not enough to keep their eyes from meeting. She slowly grasped at the zipper that ran down her back, pulling it down at a tauntingly slow pace as Michael held his breath.

As her zipper went further and further undone, her dress began to pull away from her, her body appearing from it like a blooming flower opening its petals. Michael swallowed as she finished undoing the simple contraption, her hand reaching down to her waist, pulling the mass of fabric down until it left her on its own, falling into a pile at her feet.

Their eyes never left the other's, though Michael was only bound by some gentlemanly duty- he knew she had gone mostly undressed, but still remained staring at her eyes, nervously, his breathing still quick. Amélie smiled fondly at his reaction, simply remaining there until Michael finally blinked himself aware again, inhaling gently as his eyes lowered, taking in her snow-white body, pausing as he suddenly began to notice more scars the lower his eyes traveled.

She frowned as his attention remained at her stomach for longer than she'd cared for, certain that he had been eyeing the strips of her skin that had the dull white markings of scars. She didn't move, but she did feel the welling up of shame inside her, followed by an embarrassed streak of red across her face.

Michael reached out to place his open hand atop her stomach, which almost felt like it would burn against her cold skin. Amélie reached down, clutching at his hand, though he wouldn't allow her to pull it away, simply trailing his thumb down a particularly lengthy scar.

"Quit that," she muttered ashamedly, her eyes turning away in frustration.

His eyes looked up at her face, "Why? "

"Because, just…" she attempted, weakly, trailing off in embarrassment.

Michael managed an equally weak smile as his thumb remained there atop her scar, "I mean, it means you're still alive. It means I had the opportunity to know you and, you know, be here right now."

He leaned into her, his face reaching for her neck, stopping at her ear, "It may be one of the most beautiful parts about you if that's the case."

Amélie shivered as his lips met her neck, so softly pulling at her skin before a sharp sting came there as he sucked against her, his kissing continuing up and down her neck as he quickly developed a taste for her delicate skin. She continued shaking, reaching a hand up to clutch at the back if his head, gently scratching at his scalp as she sought out tufts of his hair, a quiet squeal escaping her.

Her breath was ragged as she spoke, faintly, as though her very breath was being taken from her by him, "You must be my Sylfide, I suppose."

Michael paused his kissing as he grinned, his face still against her neck as his chuckled lightly, "I thought I was too short to be your Sylfide."

Amélie's other hand found its way underneath his shirt, emulating his as it pushed against his stomach, but only before it worked its way up toward his sturdy chest, her eyes chasing it along until finally shooting up to meet his, a mischievous smirk spreading over her face, "I'm sure you'll manage to grow a few inches, don't worry."

Michael paused for a moment, suddenly turning away with a blush and a soft laugh at her joke, trying not to seem too embarrassed, now. She didn't seem to mind as she pushed his shirt up his torso, leaning down to take her own turn at kissing his skin which seemed so much warmer having been beneath his thick piece of clothing.

Just as he'd began to shiver beneath the soft skin of her lips, Michael's eyes widened as she suddenly pulled away, reaching over to take his hand as his shirt fell back down his body. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled him along, the two slowly walking through the inside of the apartment, through only one door before entering her modest bedroom, with only a bed and the vanity where, just days before, Amélie had seen those ugly marks along her skin. Now, looking at those scars, she was sure she would now only think of this man running fingers and lips across them.

She turned as they made it to the mattress, examining the sheets that she had only lazily made up that morning, mildly embarrassed that it was in slight disarray. She frowned at the sight, but suddenly jumped as Michael's arms worked around her arms and against her body from behind, clutching her tightly and pulled her back against him.

"Am I so dangerous that you must apprehend me?" she asked, more playfully than anything else.

Michael's warm breath ran along her shoulder as he smiled against her skin, his hand running up her stomach, gently cupping at her breasts, the rough lace of her bra causing a tingling to ran through as his hand as he slowly ran his hand over her, leaving soft kisses at her neck as her head fell backward, enjoying the foreign sensation.

"I have a theory," Michael quietly muttered, though his hand remained atop her breast, "Were I to kiss every inch of you, I'm sure there'd be at least one spot where I'd be the last to visit."

Amélie watched him through hazy eyes, unable to speak. She could tell from his hand's slightly clunky movements that he truly hadn't done much of the sort before. Still, the sensation was new and pleasurable enough that it was worth while nonetheless, and she enjoyed the effort he was, and potentially would continue to be, presenting. She knew she would be afforded the same leeway, when she would be sure to find activities for him that she'd be equally as clunky at. The thought brought a grin to her face, causing a confused glare from Michael.

"What?" he wondered, sincerely.

She turned to him with the same grin, reaching up to give him an appreciative kiss, "Nothing. But you're going to have to strip down for what I have in mind."

Michael cocked a smirk of his own as she gently pulled away, but he held his grasp, causing her stare to grow confused. His hand left her chest, running along her body, down to where she could easily tell where he was navigating. She reached up quickly, grabbing at his hand, unsurely, watching him with a slightly worried look on her face.

He smiled at her, reaching over and kissing her lips again, assuredly, the strength at her hand weakening, allowing him the chance to advance, which he took, easily, cupping his hand around that space between her legs. Amélie immediately jumped at the sensation. She'd explored herself before, but with a foreign hand there, it sent electricity shooting up her body, almost feeling the tingling from her head bursting across every inch of her body.

Michael accepted her moan into his mouth as they continued worshipping one another's lips, though his attention was, indeed, halved. His hand had run across the same matching lace that covered his bosom, the same roughness forcing the hair on his arm to stand, though here, it was also warm, wet with her body's work. She was quivering in his arms, almost as if she was about to collapse at any moment.

He attempted running his finger up and down the chasm that teased him so greatly just beneath that fabric. The rough lace wasn't comfortable at all, he thought, his fingers suddenly working to the thingy apart edges that now ran just along her lips, slowly pulling the strip to the side as Amélie's teary eyes opened slightly, staring into Michael's contented face as he continued to rain heavy kisses against her lips, sucking at her thinnest skin.

Familiar enough with a woman's anatomy, Michael's fingers ran up toward her, though he hadn't any idea the distance for which he was traveling, at least not until Amélie's body suddenly jerked with a yelp as her lips yanked from his own. Her entire body shook, as her eyes narrowed, staring into his own surprised pair. Her legs had gone weak, and Michael was sure to hold her tightly with his own hand, though his other was placed nicely, as well, to aid in keeping her from collapsing.

Still, Michael thought it best to lay her down, which he did, carefully sprawling her out across the bed on her back as she stared up at him, her face a maelstrom of shock and worry, yet also with the softened twinge of lust in her eyes, especially as Michael grasped the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, her eyes softly examining the breadth of his shoulders, wanting nothing more than to be held between those sturdy rocks of skin and muscle.

Michael knelt down beside the bed, as if about to offer a prayer, though as his eyes stared across Amélie's body, he knew, clearly, that a much different sort of worship was in store. He reached to either side of her hips as her body rose and fell in time with her heavy breaths, her eyes just barely watching him from between those two heavenly mounds above him, his hands gingerly pulling the rather uncomfortable fabric of her panties down her slender, white legs, catching a glimpse of a sight so beautifully lustful.

Amélie's eyes narrowed as the lips of her face sucked inward, nervously, her niveous face taking on a bright crimson as Michael grasped around her thighs, pulling her toward the edge of the bed, his head coming dangerously close to her, though it wasn't what was between them that caused her so much embarrassment.

Michael's face fell, sadly, his eyes trailing down either side of her legs. The scars of her stomach were one thing, but the inside of her thighs, it looked almost as if her skin had been shredded by tens of claws. He couldn't speak, and although he didn't want to embarrass her further, his eyes wandered up to her face, a collection of tears running down her cheeks.

"S-Sorry," she muttered, quietly, almost as a whine.

Michael frowned, returning his stare to the skin of her thighs, "For what?"

Amélie shook her head, "For how ugly it-"

"Shh," Michael interrupted, "I already told you, didn't I?"

All he heard from above was a near-silent whimper as Amélie fell into tears, though once he turned back toward her, a smile was there to greet him. He smiled in return, his arms slowly unwinding from her legs until only his hands remained clutching at her legs, giving his lips the chance to kiss at even this mess of scars.

"Don't hurt yourself anymore, okay?" he asked, quietly, between kisses.

Amélie nodded.

And with that, as his lips trailed down her leg, down her scars, meeting her own pair of lips, Michael's eyes closed and he became lost within her, once again. Amélie's hands worked their way down, clutching at his head as wet gasps left her throat, her eyes still watered, thought now from the unimaginable pleasure pouring over her body.

She was lost within him, as well. She _had_ been, ever since he'd taken her into that hug.


	10. Dix

Michael awoke behind closed eyes, feeling the soft warmth around him of bedsheets clinging around his waist. In a furious swirl of memories, he realized he was still laying here, clutching a pillow, his face buried halfway into the soft collection of fluff, though the warmth accompanying it forced him to equate it to something far more lovely.

He lazily rolled onto his back, suddenly bringing his hand up to shield his eyes as the morning sun assaulted him, leaving him lying there, quietly. He could tell he still had no clothes on, though he was quite beyond embarrassment within the presence of the woman he'd shared the bed with the night before. Apparently, as his eyes slowly opened, Amélie had much the same attitude.

As his eyes adjusted to the soft sunlight from the window, he slowly began to make out the body of Amélie, standing there, perfectly nude; her arms crossed as she held a dark mug of coffee, staring out the window into the vastness of the world before her.

Michael couldn't help but remain quiet, wanting only to stare at the body which had become a part of his just a few hours ago, though Amélie's voice, although gentle, arose with her characteristic monotone, "I know you're up; you can quit staring."

She turned her head at the sound of Michael's grin, her face quickly returning the gesture, even if her smile was far more sad than his. As soon as he noticed this, Michael immediately frowned, realizing what had been on her mind. She slowly returned to the window, sadly, taking a sip of coffee as she stood there, her arms not leaving their crossed pose.

Michael's hand ran across his face in loss, but he quickly sighed as he lifted himself up, turning his body off the bed, leaving him sitting there, still watching the cygne larmoyante as she peered, fearlessly, out the window.

He stood up, making his way toward her, wrapping his arms around her from behind as he rested his face against the back of her shoulder, his eyes staring over her and out the window. To his surprise, he could see the vast land between the building, with most of Paris in the distance; though, for however vast the world appeared out that window, the only part of it he truly cared for was the single piece of it that now rested in his arms. that would soon be lost to him.

He tenderly kissed at her cheek as he shut his eyes, wanting nothing more than to cease his senses that wouldn't immediately connect him to this being, "Doesn't anybody worry? About you being out all night with no explanation, that is."

Amélie shrugged as best she could with him against her, "I have my own place; it's not unusual or anything. It will be, soon enough, I suppose."

Michael sighed as she took another sip of coffee, their bodies warming in the gentle sunlight, simply enjoying the other's body against theirs, leaving Amélie with not much else to say, "I have movers coming today, so you have until then."

"'You'?" Michael questioned, earning a sidelong stare from her.

"We" she corrected, a gently smirk appearing there.

She enjoyed his body shaking against hers as he chuckled approvingly, reminding her of their bodies quivering against one another the night before. Finally, she leaned forward to rest her mug on a nearby table, escaping Michael's grasp as she returned to the foot of the bed, leaning down to collect the assortment of clothing that had been strewn across the small room.

"You know," Amélie began, softly, "I thought it would be awkward when you awoke, but… I mean, we're barely talking and it's just sort of-"

"Comfortable?" Michael finished, earning a quick nod from her.

She paused what she was doing, "Yeah."

The two stood there for a moment, not moving, though Amélie knew she'd opened herself to a topic or two that she'd have preferred not to have. As if to show indifference, she returned to gathering up her clothing, but Michael spoke up anyway, beginning with a sigh.

"Look, there's something that-"

"I don't want to hear it," Amélie answered, harshly, turning to him, "Everything I said, everything I did; it was all true. Don't take any of this as me saying I regret a thing; what we had last night, it was something I'll never think back upon with anything other than a heartwarming fondness."

She sighed, lowering her head, "But today's a new day. I really don't want you to hurt any more than you're going to."

Michael shrugged, "Are you wanting me to leave?"

"No, just-" Amélie groaned, "You know. I don't want to ruin it or anything."

"Ah," Michael nodded, knowingly, "I could have left right after, I suppose; I know men are supposed to be professionals at that sort of thing."

Amélie gave him a crooked smile, rolling her eyes sarcastically as she stood up, "You know what I mean."

"Okay then, how much time do we have together?"

She looked at a nearby clock, "I don't know; maybe an hour or two until the movers get here."

Michael give an absent-minded nod as he looked away, as if his mind was elsewhere, but in a moment, he began walking toward Amélie, whose face watched him curiously. He collected his underwear and pants before walking past her, toward the bedroom door, as if he owned the place alongside her.

"Do you have a kitchen in here?" he asked, sincerely.

She pointed him along, his voice returning, "Okay; go take a shower and I'll warm up a towel for you and make you breakfast. How's that for a perfect morning?"

Smiling, Amélie nodded slowly, "Just one thing- no talking about anyth-"

"I got it," he answered, warmly, "Let's pretend that we'll be here tomorrow morning as well."

She smiled weakly, unable to keep from thinking of the reality of the situation, though she wanted to be as strong as Michael, at least, appeared to be. He stared at her for a few moments longer, taking in her body a final time, before relinquishing his attention to her, leaving toward the kitchen, fiddling with his clothing as he went. Amélie turned her head to the ground, smiling at his gesture, especially since she couldn't ever remember anybody making her anything as melancholy as breakfast.

She looked over at her nightstand her phone still sitting there, unmoving. Sighing, she headed for the bathroom, running the water and stepping into the tall, transparent box that made up her shower, eyes closed as she enjoyed the hot water, trying her best to keep her mind off of the inevitable. As much as it pained her to hurt this man, they had both known they couldn't be together, and as much as it would hurt _him_ , she knew that she couldn't even begin to fathom how deeply this week would affect her.

Her eyes opened, looking down at the placid shape of her stomach, her finger running across one of her scars. It was funny, she thought; she knew how, just a morning ago, she would do the same and find herself ugly or ruined. Despite knowing that, she couldn't help but return to the night before, seeing Michael kissing that very spot, running his hand over it. Somehow, she thought, he'd made it beautiful to her, and that was a thought that she knew she'd never forget.

Concealed by the running water that ran across her face and down her body, she didn't bother crying there, silently, thinking of losing such a person. Still, she sighed, taking a moment to breathe, not wanting to ruin this morning.

The door opened and Michael stepped into the bathroom, standing there, trying for a peek at her, though the tempered glass was too blurry for much of anything of the sort, "One warm towel for the mademoiselle. I'll leave it here for when you get out."

Before he could do so, Amélie shut the water off, signaling her exit, "Hold on."

Michael did as instructed, struggling mightily to keep his jaw up as she stepped out from the shower, almost shining. Her wet hair clung to her skin, and she appeared to be like some mermaid or sea nymph suddenly allowing him a glimpse. She grinned, twirling around and backing up toward him so that he could wrap the towel around her shoulders.

She grabbed at its edges, holding the warm cotton against her skin, Michael's arms remaining around her as he buried his face into her shoulder once again, "Breakfast is almost ready. I cant guarantee the taste; my pallet was sort of ruined forever last night and nothing will ever taste quite as good."

Amélie fancied a blush, though lifted a leg and playfully threw it backward against him, leaving him laughing, "Oh come on; I thought French was the language of love."

"Love, not raunchiness," Amélie explained, clearly, with a smile, "There's a fine line there, you know. Two people can do a lot without there being love in between."

Michael was happy that he was behind her, as he was sure his face was making some expression that he wouldn't want her to have seen. While he understood their needing to part ways, he also knew that nobody on earth would ever come close to this being. After all, who else would stumble upon him enough to get to know him so well without being so turned off by his romanticism or plain looks?

Still, his thoughts remained toward a pleasant morning to cap a wondrous, yet still heartbreaking, night. Only because of this woman, he'd felt things he'd never felt, tasted what he hadn't tasted, seen what he couldn't have seen with his own eyes. Even her words, her succulent sounds that rang through his ears simply due to his own work were noises he hadn't heard before. His senses had so heighted that, now, most of what he could experience would dull so tremendously.

"Hey," Amélie perked up, trying to get his attention, "Won't the food burn?"

"Oh, no; I've got the over on low, don't worry."

She frowned, "It runs hotter."

Michael stared off into the distance for a few seconds, absently, before pulling away and hurrying out the door, grasping the threshold as he spun off down the hall, leaving Amélie with an amused smile which faded ever so gently.

* * *

Michael sighed with relief as he slid the eggs out from the modest pan, asking curiously, "For one so elegant, you certainly live with simple things."

He spun the pan in his hand, examining its beaten shape, as though it had been bought second-hand at a garage sale. In fact, most of what she owned seemed as such, bought as used objects, though it seemed to match the dull, olden walls of the building.

Amélie tilted her head indifferently as she stabbed her fork into a small piece of bacon, "I mean, I'd been around 'pretentious' things, as you say, my entire life. So when I moved out, it seemed intriguing to surround myself with things that weren't perfect and new."

Michael grinned at her slightly liberal usage of the term, though he understood where she was coming from, "Makes sense. I figured you just had expenses; I knew ballet wasn't cheap, and I'm sure that viola cost a bit."

She nodded, "I buy new shoes for every performance, and you actually get them all imported. The one family-owned business we get ours from, I actually went from person to person until I found a shoe I liked. That's how precise it is, and how different one maker can be from another. Especially for my very specific preferences."

"Huh," Michael acknowledged, absently, as he was mesmerized by Amélie's current action.

She'd lifted the small silver-dollar pancake up off her plate, scrutinizing it intently, flipping it from side to side, as if confused, leaving Michael with just a grin, "Never seen a pancake before?"

"I know what they are," she replied, slightly peeved, "I've just…never had one before."

Michael nodded, "Well, you had the stuff to make them, so I figured why not. I only made enough for three or four- without syrup, there's really no point."

She eyed him, sarcastically, "So let me get this straight. You fry up some cake and then douse it in maple syrup to start your day?"

He gave her a thumbs up, "Well, that's how I used to do it anyway."

Amélie grimaced, still pulling the round piece toward her mouth, taking a bite, "Eh, it's… You know, there's a bakery right downstairs. If you wanted dessert for breakfast, they have eclairs and madeleines and a bunch of other-"

In a second, Michael had leaned over the counter separating the kitchen from the bar, stealing a quick kiss from her lips before standing again, smiling boyishly as he continued sliding the pan back and forth across the stovetop. Amélie stared at him, lost, as he eyed her lowly, still smirking.

"J'ai déjà mon dessert," he muttered, sticking his tongue out, teasingly.

Amélie shook her head, slowly, "You don't even know what that means in English."

Michael met her heavy stare, grinning smugly as if he was about to get away with something. He dropped the pan onto the burner, wiping his hands on a rag as he made his way around the counter, never losing eye contact. Once he made his way behind her, he grasped her sides, causing her to inhale, suddenly from his grip as his face reached up beside her head, his lips nearly coming right onto her ear.

"[I already…have….my dessert]," he whispered into her ear, not noticing her chest suddenly exhaling as she lost her breath, only because of the heat at her hear- she could only assume he was repeating himself.

He kissed her neck, sucking at her skin for only a brief moment before standing back up and repeating his previous path in reverse, returning to the kitchen with the most mischievous of smiles on his face. Amélie felt her body heat up, making her slightly uncomfortable in her clothes, even if all she had on was a long shirt she wore during rehearsals…and nothing else.

Still battling her loss of breath, she gently grasped at her knees, still sitting at the barstool as Michael went on sliding the pan as if nothing had happened. She rose her head, watching that cocksure grin as if he thought she was his to do with for this final hour or two of their time.

She knew she couldn't have this, she thought, her hand suddenly reached up to clutch at the bar, her voice still, "How do you say 'amenez-moi au lit' in English?"

Michael's grin grew as he turned up toward her, a tuft of his hair falling over his forehead as he eyed her heatedly, "It'd probably be better to show you."

He slid the pan of food over onto another burner, shutting off the stovetop as he rounded the counter once more, reaching down to grab at her hand, pulling her to her feet. Her face ran red as he bent down, and in one single motion, pulled her up into the air in his arms, looking into her eyes as her arms quickly reached up around his neck for support.

"It means to pick me up?" she asked, innocently.

He grinned once more, turning toward the bedroom, "Almost."

He sidled in through the threshold, careful not to hit her bed, and in only a few more strides, had her over the bed, gently lowering her atop her mattress, his lips hurrying to her own as she lay there, her hands reaching up to his chest, running over his sturdy frame as his body lowered and rose back up slightly, his mind so lost in her lips.

Suddenly, Amélie's hands shot to his sides, right beneath his arms as her leg came up to the bed, pushing him over to the side as she followed along, not on all fours above him, staring down at him with a wily look on her face.

"This is my place still," she whispered, lowering the front of her body as if about to pounce, "You're my guest. I decide what you do, when you do it, and for how long."

Michael's eyes narrowed as her head fell toward his chest in a second, burying her lips in his chest, trailing kissing up along his sternum, crawling further up the bed as she made it up his neck, his chin, his lips; a parade of kisses like a Roman triumph, claiming what was hers.

She wrapped her arm around his head, clutching onto him as her head rested against his scalp, taking a breather for just a moment before her head trailed down against his soft hair, her lips parting only once they reached his ear.

"Me. Now. and until they knock that fucking door down."

Michael might have laughed if not for the sudden appearance of breasts directly above his face, right beyond the loose neckline of her shirt, the sight absolutely mesmerizing to him. They fit her slender body so well, simply adding another dimension to this body whose endless number of shapes had captivated him.

Slowly, her body slithered down again as she prescriptively pulled her shirt up, ensuring nothing would get in her way as she sat back atop his midsection, her knees holding him in place as she reached down to touch his chest. She grinned wryly as her hand massaged his taut skin, his eyes in a haze from both the sight and her touch.

"This is sort of embar-"

"You spent approximately fifteen minutes doing whatever you wanted to my chest last night, and don't even get me started on the length of time you spent on my-"

She paused, blushing as she looked away, leaving Michael with a grin of his own, "Did you lose count?"

"Shut up," she grumbled angrily, "Do you want this?"

"More than my next breath," he answered.

"Good," she mumbled, her body slowly dropping onto his as her waist slid down atop him, her lips brushing his chin, "Because your breaths are going to be sparse for the next while."

Amélie ran her arms up and around his head, grasping around him, almost for dear life as her mouth opened atop his, breathing hot breath against his skin as she felt him entering her, the feeling still relatively new to her, though she relished the thought of it, as well as the two strong arms that wrapped around her, those of Michael trying to pull as much of her body against him as he could.

They remained that way, unmoving, for a while, simply enjoying the feeling of being bound together, the two breathing heavily against the other, their bodies rising and falling out of sync, only allowing them the chance to realize just how close the other was. Amélie mustered the strength to push her upper body up, the new sensation from beneath causing her to twitch with a gasp, though she quickly held onto Michael's chest, pushing all her weight onto him, though he didn't even move from the pressure.

She smiled, lazily, as she panted heavily, her hands running across his broad chest, finding his ribs. Her finger ran through their ridges, contentedly, Michael happily willing to lay there, allowing her whatever enjoyment she coveted.

"Nine…ten…eleven…twelve," she counted through gradually evening breaths, "All there. Just making sure."

Michael eyed her curiously, her lips curling into a soft smile, "Just making sure you weren't missing one. You know, in your making of paradise."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes at her hubris, concealing a quiet chuckle as he shook his head, "I can't exactly complain."

Amélie sighed happily as her knees pushed her up only slightly, a quiet moan escaping her before a sudden, wet yelp arose from her lips as her body fell onto him again, Michael's hands grasping at the sheets as he struggled to keep his eyes open, not daring to miss the vision of beauty atop his body.

He gritted his teeth, his breath seething as Amélie's hand ran down his chest, the pads of her fingers turning into her claws, the burning pain only serving to further enhance the succulent pleasure steaming between the two.

Michael's hands reached up to grab her own pair, Amélie desperately trying to reorient her hands so that their fingers could mold together, her eyes staring down into his through a teary screen above a lovely smile. Their hands now bound together, Michael slowly pulled his apart, Amélie's arms going along as she slowly fell toward him, resting atop his chest so that he could get further kisses in, their arms outstretched as Amélie tried her best to continue rolling her midsection down and onto him.

She pulled away for a breath, Michael noticing a trail of saliva running down her chin, a grin forming across his face as he reached up to kiss her clean, another supple moan escaping her as he rolled his waist toward her, his length running further along inside of her as she shivered, suddenly.

"Please," she whispered, still with tears running down her face, "Please find someone else. I hate that I had to hurt you, but… Maybe if you find somebody… Somebody who deserves you, you won't…"

Michael shook his head to quiet her, his breath haggard under the pleasure, "You're a fool if you think anybody else could even hope to match what I've had with you."

His hands left hers, hurriedly wrapping around her waist as her tears grew only slightly, a few dropping down onto his face as he grinned, "I'm used to getting hurt. Don't worry; I can handle it."

Lost between sadness and indescribable pleasure, Amélie simply lowered her head, preferring to meet his chest rather than his face. She was no longer moving as Michael held her tightly, working the both of them as he grunted, bestially, throwing his waist into her as the both of them sought the release of all their pleasure.

Finally, the two of them erupted into sudden convulsions, Amélie forced to dig her fingers into Michael's sides as she lay above him, holding onto dear life as her mind burst into nothing but whiteness, the only thing being aware of was the mass of warmth that held her as she whimpered, pitifully, feeling returning to her as chemicals flooded across her body, still shaking after she'd finished.

She desperately lifted her head, meeting Michael's distant glare back at her, his mouth wide open to take in breaths, slowly disappearing into a weak smile. She slowly dragged her body across his, just able to make it close enough for them to kiss before giving up on ever returning strength to her body.

"You can't hurt me," Michael assured though labored breathing, "You can only bring me happiness. So please, don't think that you are."

Amélie managed a weak, "Okay…"

He smiled at her state of being, rather jealous that he wasn't quite able to indulge in such a plane as her, "I mean, it's not like you'll kill me or anything."

At that, she seemed to suddenly gain some strength as she adorable lifted a fist just barely off from him before simply releasing it to fall against him once again, owing back to her current weakness. He held her tightly still, not wanting this to end, though knowing the both of them were pushing it as it-

*knock* *knock* *knock*

Michael jerked, his head shooting toward the bedroom door as Amélie sighed longingly, just managing to push herself up. He jumped up, happy that his clothes were mostly on already, only zipping up and darting for his shirt, still adorning the floor. Amélie rolled off the bed as she stood up, her shirt so lovingly rolling down her body, nearly causing Michael another moment of disillusion.

*knock* *knock*

He panicked further, but Amélie took his hand, steadily, her face dropped in sadness as their eyes met. She pulled him along out of the room, toward the front door, though she turned him around.

"Got everything?" she asked, lowly.

He nodded, patting his pants pockets, "Yep. Everything but you."

Amélie sighed, "Don't say that."

"Sorry."

She looked back up at him, her open hands reaching to his chest, pushing him against the wall beside the door, where the door would cover up upon entry.

"I guess the sex ruined the goodbyes," he grinned, defeatedly.

"Making love," she answered, quietly, answering one of his points from some point in their time together that had all but become a blur in her mind, "And isn't that the best kind of goodbye?"

He looked away, smiling, "I _forgot_ I was in France for a moment."

She kicked him playfully as-

*knock* *knock* "Movers!"

Amélie sighed, staring at the door. She shook her head, reaching for the handle, but before she grasped it, she jumped over in front of Michael, grasping his head with her hands as she pulled him down into another kiss, her hands running up and down his gentle hair, leaving him one last taste of her.

She whispered to him, "Goodb-"

"I love you."

Suddenly, that pain she knew she'd feel came stabbing into her heart as Amélie clenched her hands into fists, staring at the doorknob. It was all she could do to not reply, either in kind or in anger. Without saying a word, she reached out for the knob, swinging the door open, concealing Michael in the corner, from the movers, and from herself.

"Eh, so'ry madam; we didn't mean ta-!"

"Just in time!" she managed with a smile that nearly torn her apart the farther it reached across her face, "I need help with something. In here."

The two men nodded and followed her diligently into the other room, leaving the main room empty, save for the wooden door. Slowly, is pushed away from the corner, revealing Michael to nobody to himself, though he preferred that at this moment. He stared at the ground for a moment, realizing that that would be the last he'd ever see of this woman. This perfect being who'd taken him in so many ways that a woman could take a man.

He reached an arm of his sleeve up to wipe away the tears that had begun to form just above his cheeks, his body lithely emerging from behind the door before sidling out into the dark hallway of the apartment. He staggered further into the hallway, down the path he knew Amélie hadn't come from, before turning the nearest corner, slamming his back against the wall as he slid down to the ground, pulling his knees up, dropping his head into his crossed arms.

And he shook. Shook with tears, anguish. The same kind of shaking he had shared with Amélie just moments ago, though where those were because of their closeness, this came from his loneliness. What saddened him most wasn't the pain he felt sharply in his heart, though.

What saddened him most was that, just like their earlier shaking, they would be sharing these as well. For how long, he couldn't know.


	11. onze

A dark tunnel, leading down through an industrialized-looking corridor, nothing but darkness amidst the soft glow of only a few lamps attached to the walls. The sounds of dripping water, the occasional scurrying of rodent feet accompanied the drab scene, the cement floor ominously laying out along the entire length of this seemingly underground enclosure.

Down along the tunnel, you take a right turn at a measly crossroads, finding only a door labeled with the word "Lab", though that's crossed out with what seems to be lipstick, the words "Keep Out" scribbled beneath with the same writing material. Just on the other side of this door, you find an even darker room, small, though with a massive curtain slung across the length of one entire wall. There aren't any lights here, though if you turn your head, you'd catch the soft glow of computer screens in the corner. And if you listened closely, you'd hear a collection of unmistakably feminine moans.

Sitting in her chair, a woman eyed the screen, just able to keep her eyes open through a weak struggle, her heated breaths turning into steam just in front of her. Her narrow eyes kept on the screen, a massive collection of code running down the entire screen, from one side to another, like a waterfall of green digits and letters.

She leaned forward, clutching onto the desk as she kept her other hand clutched between her legs, a quiet moan escaping her lips as she licked at them, just catching a strand of drool about to run down her chin. Her eyes continued staring at the screen, so intently, leaning closer and closer as her fingers ran along the length between her legs quicker and faster.

"Hmm," she moaned, sensually, "You certainly are a naughty girl, hermana."

Her fingers suddenly crawled up toward her front, her body suddenly jerking awake as she found her spot, a sharp yelp popping from her, leading into a hot moan as her fingers worked, tirelessly.

*crack*

She immediately paused, yanking her hand from her tight pants as her other hand quickly grasped her gun, aiming it toward the open door. She stared at it, angrily, upset that she'd been so careless, though after only a cursory glance at the room, she groaned, dropping her arm to her side, along with her firearm.

"Verga…" she muttered to herself, grabbing a paperweight from the desk and throwing it across the room, angrily shouting, "Tirate a un poso! Can't you read?!"

She shook her head defeatedly, returning to her desk as a quite whisper of air passed by her, into a nearby corner, a set of boots appearing before legs materialized, followed by the rest of a man, clocked entirely in black, a skull mask the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely into the darkness.

"I thought I heard you being stabbed, "he answered, plainly, "I had no idea it was yourself doing the stabbing."

"Chingate; fuck off," she mumbled, shaking her head as she spun in her chair back toward the desk.

The ghost of a man approached behind her, staring at the screen, "Found anything?"

She groaned, "Nope. Nada."

"When will you-"

"Do you want to do it?" she interrupted, annoyed, "It was bad enough you guys have me figuring out how to convert physical electricity into code; you'd be so far up shit creek without my expertise."

"I just wanted to know before Max got here," the ghost confirmed, emotionlessly.

The woman slammed her fist against the desk, "Son of a bitch."

Shrugging, the man replied, "Well, he had to call in a lot of favors. You _are_ in possession of his most prized asset."

"I know; and I can't work with people breathing down my back," she grumbled.

The man eyed her, "So that was work I walked in on?"

She sighed massaging her temples, "I swear to god, I should have stayed solo… Swear it."

As if finished with her, the man turned toward the curtain, examining it carefully, "Still going well?"

"About as well as I can hope," she sighed, shaking her head, "Vitals are good, no disruptions or anything."

She waved him over, which he obeyed, her finger pointing at the screen, "Here, see that line right there? and this one, clear across the screen? That's one memory right there, split into two lines of code nowhere near one another. So if Max thinks he can do this any faster, he can go fuck himself."

The man, Gabriel Reyes, stared at the screen, even if "stared" wasn't the most accurate term, seeing as though he had no eyes. He was now an amalgamation of some sort of energy, the likes of which he couldn't begin to comprehend himself, though he _did_ bother to explore the possibilities he had at his disposal.

"So, exactly, what is it you're doing?" he questioned, darkly, "I never have asked before."

The woman in front of him, Sombra, sighed, scratching a spot on her arm, "Basically, I'm running through the brain's electrical signals, somehow converting them into code, which allows me to rewrite it somewhat."

"Somehow?" Gabriel questioned, pithily.

Shrugging, Sombra cocked her head, "Hey, I was asked to do a task, not submit it to a journal of medicine. Max should count himself lucky I figured something out."

She picked up a large coin from the desk, rolling it along the back of her hand through the slits between her fingers, "Problem is, I don't know what will happen when it's all said and done. I mean, I'm basically just shoving a different set of electrical pulses back into her brain- for all I know, she'll fry or become brain dead."

Sombra stood up, sighing heavily as she turned to walk toward the curtain behind her. She crossed her arms as she watched the lifeless body of Amélie Lacroix laying atop a medical table, a metallic some shielding her head as she rested there. Gabriel joined her, though watched with a much less sad expression.

"Shame," Sombra mumbled, sadly, "Poor girl didn't even want this. Didn't really deserve this."

"Getting sentimental?" Gabriel asked, plainly.

Sombra answered, lacking her usual attitude, "I've pretty much lived her life from my desk- well, what of it she still had memories of. Almost like she was my sister or something. That code running down the screen, it almost looked like teardrops sometimes."

Gabriel turned toward her, unenthralled, but even he recognized a tender moment. He simply turned to walk away, keeping an eye on the computer as he did, eying the endless green streaks of digits running down the screen.

"Just remember what we're here to do," he reminded, easily.

Sombra scoffed, "Well, duh. I didn't construct this cockamamie setup just to let her walk out of here. I know my job."

"Good," Gabriel finished, groaning lightly, "You know it's not me; I'm just looking out for you."

She eyed him, skeptically, "I know as well as you do. Nobody joins Talon to join Talon. You're using me and everyone else just as much as Max is, just as much as I'm using you and everyone else. And when Madam Lacroix, here, wakes, we'll be using her just the same."

Gabriel nodded, "Regardless, I'm still looking out for you. Good to know you know the score."

He nodded toward her in acknowledgement before stomping off in his boots, even if he made little to now sound as he did. This left Sombra with a sad frown as she turned toward Amélie, running her stare down her slim body before returning to the computer, sighing as she sat down, cross-legged, in the swiveling chair.

"Alright, hermana," she muttered to herself, leaning in toward the monitor, "Let's see here…"

Her face sunk as she saw Amélie's wedding day, albeit in code form, putting the lines together in order to piece the scene together somewhat, her voice hollowed, "You look so sad, chica. I know you always look like that, but…it's in your eyes."

She curiously turned to her other monitor, which she could use to go over already rendered code, while the primary monitor showed the real-time stream of data. She typed in certain keywords, or rather, certain segments of code she had remembered, somehow, ending with,

"RJ694F46HJW"

She leaned forward, checking to see that the door had, indeed, been closed by Gabriel before her lips curled. She had seen Amélie, herself, represented in the code enough to know what she "looked like", but she was curious. She carefully watched the screen, having already seen it play out- it had been what she was viewing when Gabriel had entered, actually.

"Why does he sadden you…" she muttered, referring to the man who'd left her so sad on her wedding day.

In the code, she could "see" Amelie with some man, though she couldn't ascertain whether it was the same bits of code that matched her husband's. She could see the spikes of pleasure that nearly left the code with a simple line of "00000000", and though she could make out the act of Amélie having sex, she couldn't figure out if it had been her then-fiancée or not.

In the mixture of emotion jumbled together on the screen, Sombra could see a particular sort of heartbreak occurring within Amélie at the time, which she figured wouldn't have occurred had it been with the man she was so sad to be marrying. A smirk crossed her face as she turned to eye the lifeless body behind her.

"It was hot already, chica; but you just keep raising the game, huh?" she muttered, nearly giggling to herself as she returned to her live computer, getting comfortable as she watched the screen

The wedding had only been a few days ago, so she was getting close to the present. After that, she could begin her true task. That of turning this graceful beauty into a much different kind of angel. One of death. Particularly for the man Talon had its eyes on. The man who had escaped their clutches so many times.

Mr. Gérard Lacroix

* * *

Amélie walked into the grandiose front doors of the chateau that her new husband had resided in, him not being one to shy away from such displays. She only took a few steps into the entryway before lowering her two small crates of luggage, staring whimsically up toward the seemingly endless ceilings a d hallways. She'd been raised in the chateau of her parents, who were also rather wealthy themselves, but this Lacroix home was magnanimously presented to anybody's eyes as a sure sign of limitless wealth and hospitality.

She sighed, more in awe than anything, as her husband entered behind her, smiling with the rest of her luggage in his hands, carefully lowering the various boxes to the ground, "Well? How do you like it?"

Amélie nodded slowly, "It's… Wow."

Her husband grinned widely in front of a hearty chuckle, "That _is_ the usual response. What isn't usual is that nobody, before you, has entered into their own palace. That's what I want this to be for you. So, do what you'd like to anything! I've already rearranged a room for you to use as a studio, if you'd like."

He nodded approvingly, "Also, we have two assistance should you need anything."

Not even having housekeepers as a child, Amélie felt a rather short tear of guilt go through her, which Gérard seemed to sense as he smiled, "It's fine; they'd be happy to help you in anything. They're as much like family to me as anybody else. I'm sure you'll warm up to them."

He smiled happily, "I'd be happy to take care of your luggage from here, so please, wander to your heart's content! I would highly recommend you peruse the veranda; that's my favorite place in the house, to be honest."

Amelie nodded as he took hold of most of her boxes, heading up the massive staircase, leaving her alone at the door. It was all still a lot to take in, though she figured that meant it was time enough to explore and hopefully, make this place more homely. She slowly began to walk through the mastadonic house, taking in all that she could at a time.

She would walk into a room and simply remain there for a time, getting a general "feel" of the place, though after only seeing two rooms, she already had begun to feel quite overwhelmed. Compared to the most "at home" she had felt, in that small apartment with only one, real, "feel", two rooms in had her suddenly shiver at the thought of it all.

Still, she moved on, taking in deeper breaths as she walked through another hallway, opening up a door to a lengthy room, seeming to have run clear down the side of the ground floor. Her eyes opened wide as she realized that this was the room that he'd given as her studio, the whole room perfectly fitted for a ballet dancer. Half the inner wall had a large mirror with a bar with which to stretch, and the other side at a tinted window, from floor to ceiling, looking out onto a grove that rested across from the chateau.

As she took gentle steps further into the room, her eyes remained wide open in shock at the sight, her hand sliding along the metallic bar that reached across the mirror, looking at herself in the sunlight from the massive pane of glass behind her.

"Like it?" came Gérard's voice as he entered after her, his hands hanging in his pockets as he smiled at her enamored glances, "Whatever you'd like to add to your palace, I'd be more than happy to help make it happen."

His face grew dimmer as she turned toward him, his voice far more drab, "I do not wish to leave you alone so often, however, my job-"

Amélie interrupted him bluntly, "We already discussed this, didn't we?"

Gérard smiled, his head dropping, "We did indeed."

"And like I said, you have your life to live out there. When it comes to what's here, I will happily be a part of your life," she explained as she walked up to him.

He laughed lowly, his eyes showing a flash of nervousness for only a second, "You are too good to me, my love. By all means, I don't mean to confine you here or anything."

Gérard reached out his hands to take hers, though his grasp was astoundingly light, almost weak, as he spoke up, "I don't- That is, I have no intentions of making you uncomfortable. If I do anything, I assure you, it isn't ever meant to be done in such a way as that."

Amélie looked up toward him, smiling only lightly, though with a radiance that caught her husband's eye, "You've already done so much for me as a husband…"

He grinned, "Worry not. Please. We have plenty of time to acquaint with one another. I've always known you were so much more reserved than so many other women -it's one of the things I find so fetching about you- so if it takes some time to adjust to your palace, to me, that is fine."

He bowed low, respectfully, "Now, I must attend to the dinner preparations. Stay here or explore as you like; I'll be sure to find you once the meal is prepared. I did invite a guest or two, just some friends from work I'd love for you to meet- would that be fine?"

"Absolutely," Amélie answered, nervously agreeing.

"Wonderful!" her husband shouted, clapping his hands as he turned on his heels to exit, leaving Amélie alone.

She walked her way over toward the window, staring out into the little slice of the world that had now been given to her. Despite being just outside of Paris, she couldn't see any part of the city due to the grove of trees that blocked the sight, her face sinking at the thought. She sighed, hanging her head as she lowered herself into a nearby chair, staring distantly out the window, her previous life obscured from her.

* * *

Amélie sat in her chair, quietly, simply keeping to herself and her meal unless called upon, which wasn't often, all things considered. Her husband managed to take most of the air, and after the introductions and initial pleasantries, he mostly went on about whatever at the table. Despite keeping her head lowered, she managed to peek up at him from time to time, feeling her heart lighten whenever he was in the midst of a smile.

Across from her at the table sat an older man, dressed up in a tuxedo, his face covered in scars, though Amélie could immediately tell they'd been made by things other than blades of a razer. The man, Jack Morrison, came off as extremely hardened, though once he'd settled in with Gérard's company, he'd gradually softened up, even managing a few smiles and laughs himself, though Amélie could tell that laughter was anything but second nature to him.

"You still have that ugly mustache, too," Jack offered, grinning behind a piece of steak that hung at his fork, "I would have told you you'd never get married with it crawling across your face."

Gérard laughed heartily, seemingly brightening the room with such a boisterous sound, "Oh please, Jack. The man who won't get those scars handled is going to lecture me on appearance?"

"I wasn't lecturing you; just that dark worm under our nose, their," Jack goaded, shaking his head, surprised he had even said such a thing.

Gérard laughed again, managing to reach over and pat the man on the shoulder, happily, the two appearing more like a teacher and a student more than friends. Amélie watched them as best she could, though was careful to keep her eyes down whenever the other guest was eyeing her herself, leaving Amélie slightly uncomfortable.

Ana Amari, dressed in a darkly elegant dress of her own, had arrived with Jack, the two making up Overwatch's highest positions, of which Gérard happened to be third to. The Egyptian woman spoke little, and seemed more intent at staring at the newcomer to the small clan than the conversation at hand. Given that Gérard and Jack seemed so lost in their own bravado, it gave her plenty of time to scrutinize the lithely-bodied woman.

"Oh, ma'am," Gérard spoke up, Ana's eyes shooting toward him, "My apologies for the other day. I didn't mean to-"

"Pay no mind, Lacroix," she assured, her voice low and quite powerful, "It gave me a chore to pass on to Oxton; you did nothing but help me out."

Gérard chuckled with a wry smile, "How's she doing? Earning her stripes?"

Ana half-shrugged as she tilted her head, "She'll learn."

"For many years if Amari has anything to say about it," Jack laughed, reaching over to tap his subordinate's arm with his elbow.

Gérard grinned, "Ah yes, the legend continues."

"How so?" Ana asked, curiously, "You both say I'm hard on the youngsters, yet wasn't I the one who allowed Lacroix, here, to ascend to where he is, now?"

"There are exceptions to every rule, I assure you, "Jack answered, "Most often than not –we both know- you'd keep them down in the system."

Ana sighed, shaking her head, "I don't see what's wrong with assuring younger agents are-"

"But you're not assuring," Jack answered, rather toughly, catching Gérard's attention as he turned to his wife, worriedly.

"Let's just move on, shall we?" he spoke up, noticing Jack and Ana both beginning to exchange further and further furious glances at one another.

"Yes," Jack nodded, "Let's."

Ana shook her head dismissively as she stole another glance at Amélie, their eyes actually meeting for a time on this occasion, before she continued eating, leaving Amélie with an uncomfortable feeling in her gut. Amari's eyes were almost falcon-like, as if she were staring her down from miles away, despite being right across a table. In that split second of their eyes meeting, Amélie felt utterly defenseless.

"Now, I'm sure we don't want Amélie, here, to be uncomfortable with business dealings; I do apologize," Jack muttered, bowing his head apologetically, "Truth be told, agents don't often marry, simply due to all the 'baggage' you'll have to handle."

Gérard reached over to hold her hand, "Ah, yes; but when I saw her, I knew I must have her! She seems okay with everything, from what I've gathered, correct?"

Looking up, Amélie's eyes caught Amari's face before turning to her husband, "Oh, of course. I mean, I'd hate to be a burden. As far as 'baggage', I'm a homebody anyway; I won't have a problem with him being gone or anything."

Jack's eyes slowly rolled toward Gérard, "I mean, besides that…"

Amélie turned to Jack curiously as Gérard spoke up, quickly, "I will spare no expense when it comes to my wife's safety, I assure you."

Her blood suddenly ran cold as Amélie heard this, her face keeping on Jack as the old man sighed, "I mean, there _is_ that inevitable target simply be being so close to one another. I just wanted to know if you understood-"

"And I do, Jack," Gérard assured with a smile, "I do. Intently. I just don't want to worry my wife; she needn't be troubled with such things."

Jack's lips curled in a half-hearted frown, though as he looked at Amélie, he managed a smile, "You look capable enough, my dear."

Amélie smiled lightly at his words, lowering her head again as Gérard took advantage of the silence to change the subject, lulling Jack into a discussion about something from somewhere. She poked at her food absently as the conversation went on without her, which she preferred. Despite their claims to the contrary, she now felt a pang of worry within her heart.


	12. douze

The next morning, Amélie trailed down the stairs almost lifelessly, her hair a mess and her shoulders sagging, having gotten little to no sleep the night before. It was one of those mornings where she was trapped in something of a sleep-coma, and while she was still wanting to not have her husband see her so disheveled, she also was quite too tired to care on this occasion. She simply flexed her fingers to feel her ring, knowing that he'd promised to have her in such mornings, or something to that effect.

She entered the dining room to her husband already sitting there, his nose deep in his phone as he peered deeply into its screen, getting caught up on the days events, smiling as he looked up at his wife, though it quickly turned into a look of surprise. Her plate had already been made for her, so she simply pulled her chair back, taking a seat before slouching over the table, tiredly.

"Bad night?" Gérard asked, worriedly, frightened that his accommodations had been poor.

Amélie quickly shook her head, looking up at him, "No, no. I mean, yes, but it had nothing to do with- I just couldn't sleep, that's all."

He smiled, walking toward a nearby set of cabinets as Amélie lowered her head, slowly deciding on where to start. Her eyes continued fading in and out of focus as she fought sleep, though by the time she heard footsteps behind her, she wasn't awake enough to truly grasp what it meant. Suddenly, she felt her hair being lifted, her head immediately jerking up in shock, though she quickly heard her husband laughing behind her.

"It's okay," he explained, happily, "I won't ruin anything. I have two sisters; I know how to brush hair."

Having gotten a hairbrush, he carefully held a length of hair in his open hand, running the brush down her hair behind his hand until the whole lot of strands had been straightened, leaving Amélie blushing and quite unable to eat anyway. He chuckled as he noticed this, simply shaking his head.

"Is my gentle grasp so terrifying?" he asked, smiling.

Amélie shook her head ever so quickly, "N-No, it's just… I wasn't expecting that. Thank you."

Gérard nodded respectfully, "It is no problem to be in the service of an angel, I assure you. By the way, I highly recommend the sauce there, beneath your eggs; Harmon makes a hollandaise that's to die for, as they say. But as much as I would enjoy remaining in your service for the day, I actually have some business to attend to."

He leaned down to her side so that she could see his beaming face, "So, you have me until noon, milady. I could show you around, or we could partake in some polo, maybe some other sport. If you were so obliged, I'd be happy to bring you to the 'office' for you to see."

Having emphasized the word, as his 'office' was anything but, given that more explosions occurred in testing scenarios than paperwork was filed, oftentimes, he stood back up, returning to brush her hair, "We actually have a certain aircraft that would allow us to visit any place on Earth before noon, but that's a ways away. Perhaps in a year or two."

Amélie grew accustomed to his brushing, though she was still wholly self-conscious, even with her tire, though she had begun eating, carefully, "I, uh- Actually, I wouldn't mind taking a stroll through the grove of trees outside that I see outside my studio."

"Brilliant!" Gérard exclaimed, happily, "If it is your wish, I'd be happy to accompany you."

"Of course," Amélie answered quickly, as if offended by his overt politeness.

She sat there as he finished up her hair, which had been mostly fixed by his hand, quietly eating as he did so. Finally complete, he pulled away with a satisfactory nod, putting the brush away before returning to the table to finish up his breakfast as well, bowing toward his plate before noticing Amélie's stare.

"Actually, uh…" she began, nervously, earning a sincere look from her husband, unable to continue.

He smiled, "Does something ail you?"

She sighed, nodding dutifully, "Actually, yes. I know that this isn't the most conservative of marriages, and that we haven't spent much of any time together, but I do wish you would take a more familiar air with me. Not that I dislike it, but-"

Amélie paused, as if all of her built-up steam had been used up and she now remained quietly embarrassed. Gérard had been staring at her, sincerely, but grinned as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, his lips curling inward as he humbly spoke up.

"My apologies," he began, quietly, "Truth be told, I'm quite as nervous as you. As you know, I was immediately taken by your beauty and your grace, though when I met with your parents and called upon you, I had no idea they'd be so, uh…"

He grimaced, "I hate to use the word 'insistent', but-"

Amélie shrugged, "I'm well aware of that insistence. I just as much hate to say they are opportunists, but marrying me off to someone of such high esteem, they probably figured that nobody higher would ask."

Suddenly left slightly astray, Gérard looked away, distantly. He had figured as much in dealing with Amélie's parents, but hearing it from their daughter, herself, it suddenly seemed to finally hit home for him. He did truly love her, he thought, and suddenly, the thought of this all being some business dealing crossed his mind.

His mind, however, became relieved at the sight of Amélie's soft smile, her hand reaching across the table as far as she could get it, allowing him to take it if he so chose, "I am quite taken, myself, with this man of such great renown, who has opened his home and heart to me. You've treated me very well, Monsier, and as awkward as this may be, I'd be greatly open to changing that."

Gérard grinned, reaching over, indeed, to hold her hand, "As am I, though, now you're the one being overly formal, I do believe."

His wife's eyes peered away, unamused, leaving him with a childish laugh.

* * *

With her arm wrapped around her husband's, Amélie looked up into the short treetops of the grove, the canopy's all reaching out far enough that, at points, it seemed as though there were a ceiling above of the two of them. They had talked only briefly, as Amélie was rather occupied by her viewing of this sort of orchard, her eyes beaming, which pleased her husband, who enjoyed keeping up such things simply for the admiration of his peers, much less his wife.

"This home has been in the family since my grandfather," he explained, "He was the one who began growing here. He wanted to plant grapes, but my father was quite lazy as a child, so instead of going through the difficulty of constantly forcing my father to took, he simply planted apple trees instead, with some peaches and other stuff elsewhere."

"It's beautiful," Amélie confirmed, quietly.

Gérard smiled, "Just another part of your kingdom, my dear. It warms my heart to hear that you enjoy it."

They walked on together, Gérard managing to steal a glance or two at the bright face of his wife, though, as her next question broke the silence, his face darkened, "Am I in any danger?"

"Why do you ask? Because of Jack?"

Amélie's blank face remained, "Even without that, I mean, you _are_ in Overwatch. It only makes sense you'd have people- I mean, you've already been nearly killed a number of times."

Gérard's heart sunk, though he kept his confident veneer, "That may be, but I assure you, I will spare no expense at keeping you safe, my dear. We pride ourselves on being two steps ahead of every shady group, Talon included; why else would I manage to have such a pristine track record when facing assassination?"

He smiled, "True, it's because of my own and my team's abilities, but more often than not, we know to expect _something_. At the whispering of _anything_ , I assure you, I'll be by your side to protect you."

Amélie nodded, trying to put on a brave face over her shaky interior, "Those two mentioned Talon the other night."

Gérard reached up to scratch at his neck, "Well, Talon is a…well, we say 'organization', but that's only in the loosest of terms. "Talon" is mostly a conglomeration of any and all lowlifes, who usually work alone, but 'join' Talon' as sort of a public forum for recruiting help. That lack of order and organization is what makes them so dangerous; though that's not to say they won't team up if the moment strikes them."

"Not that you need to worry," Gérard continued, subtly pulling her closer to him.

She eyed him suspiciously, "You seem so sure of that."

He smiled, returning her stare, "When I said "I do", I agreed to put your life ahead of my own, should the need arise. Despite us being rather unclose, I intend to keep that promise to the best of my ability."

Amélie smiled, looking away, embarrassed by his words, "Th-Thank you."

"There's that formality again," he pointed out, humorously.

She stared at him further, though he suddenly pulled his arm away with a smile, stepping away from her as he went backwards, "You've played petanque, correct?""

Amélie shook her head, "The kids at my school talked about it, but it wasn't exactly proper enough for my parents."

"Uh huh," Gérard answered blandly, jumping up to rip some apples from the tree, his childish behavior and smirk contrasting wonderfully with his regal suit, "Well, this will give us a chance to be more comfortable around one another, I suppose."

Nodding, Amélie gave an agreeable nod as she followed him, dexterously accepting two apples that he'd tossed toward her. He looked around, looking for something to play as a jack, but finally stuck his hand into his pocket, settling for his pocket watch, which he placed on the ground before backing off, playing with the two apples in his hand. He tilted his foot to draw a circle in the ground, gesturing for Amélie to enter.

"Ladies first, of course."

"You'll get tired of eating my dust with that attitude," she fired back, winking, which caused a laugh from her husband.

He smiled, "I'd expect nothing less. Okay, next time, I'll take the lead, but for now, after you."

She nodded with a quick smile, stepping into the circle and bending forward, trying to aim her toss, the pocket watch having been placed quite a ways away. She strained in focus before throwing her arm up, releasing the apple, watching it fly before hitting the ground, rolling only slightly forward before coming to a step, quite some distance, still, between it and the watch.

She grimaced, displeased, as Gérard chuckled, "As long as we're being competitive, allow me to demonstrate "how it is done", as they say."

He took her spot as she exited the circle, still frowning. She watched his posture, carefully, watching his hand rise, then fall, all in a pinpoint attempt at perfect accuracy. Fi ally, he pulled his arm back farther, prepared to toss, but just as he was about to let go-

*COUGH*

Amélie sudden cough threw him off enough that his apple left his hand with an odd trajectory, sailing well over the watch, the man's face falling as he sadly looked on, lowering his head, "You're quite cruel, milady."

She only giggled lightly behind her closed lips in response, stepping into the circle once more, handling her second and final apple. She bent forward again, eyeing the "playing field" that had been so crudely constructed; she had the advantage- Gérard's apple had gone far beyond the 'jack', leaving her first apple, alone, being the winning toss. Hoping to close the gap further, her eyes narrowed, focusing on her toss, recalling what she'd done last time, trying to gauge her toss.

Gérard frowned as he watched her stance, reaching over to gently hold his hands at her sides, causing her to jump in surprise, her face nearly running beet red as he spoke up, "Here, you want to stand more like…this, see? Gives you more leverage, right?"

Amélie didn't answer as her head began to shiver unnoticeably, immediately tossing, or rather, throwing, her last apple once his hands left her, the nerves quaking through her. Gérard whistled with awe as the apple flew clear out of sight, covering his eyes as he stared up into the sky.

"See? More leverage," he noted, unable to recognize the quivering tower that was his wife.

She shook it off as she relinquished her position, Gérard taking her place, concentrating as he focused. Amélie watching him, rather angrily, upset that her second turn had been wasted due to his intervention. Her lips curled as a sinister thought arose within her mind.

Gérard swung his hand back, preparing for his toss, when, at that moment, Amélie reached out, grasping him by either side of the waist, his body immediately jumping in shock as his hand flew forward, his own apple flying out of his hand, though not as far as hers had. Amélie had taken to a short giggle, though her face went serious in an instant as his apple fell to the ground, rolling fast, just beating hers as it came to a stop.

In that time, Gérard's faculties had returned, and he reached down to pull Amélie's hands away from him as he turned, a bright grin on his face, "Nice trick. I still got it, though; even with both of your attempts at sabotage."

Amélie swung her arm in feigned frustration, giving a smug-filled smirk as she nodded, sarcastically, "Whatever you say, dear."

He held his head up high, "Maybe next time you'll come out on top. Today, however, I shall play victor."

"Only for today," Amélie confirmed, grinning playfully, "Only for today.


	13. treize

**_A/N: This chapter includes a scene of, basically, some forcible assault, so be wary if that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable._**

* * *

Even after a week or so of living here, despite growing closer to her husband, Amélie remained uncomfortable with her massive surroundings. She'd explored so much of this place, yet still was finding new rooms, new nooks; while it was slightly exciting to find a new area, it also grew on her mind that she didn't know everything about the place she'd been living.

She and her husband had been sleeping in separate rooms as well, as Gérard hadn't wanted to make her even more uncomfortable then either of them were. Understanding of the whirlwind nature of their marriage, he had offered her a guest room which she accepted, though she saw it as offering her a chance at exploring further at night.

Amélie was rather pleased with the accommodations he was making for her. She knew that he was probably just as uneasy as her when it came to the thought of them being alone, still, though she warmly appreciated how many concessions he'd been making. She couldn't deny, to herself, that she had some darker ideas of a man marrying her and immediately taking her to bed, and she was quite pleased that this wasn't the case.

Still, Amélie was uncomfortable in this house. On this night, as she'd done the last few nights, she would walk carefully through the grandiose rooms of the home, making sure she looked at every corner, given the time of night, as she knew she had time to herself to do so. The housekeepers didn't stay the night themselves, though Gérard had mentioned some rooms for them to occupy whenever he had to be gone on business.

The study was what most resembled her old apartment, with its wooden bookcases and desk resembling the near-decrepit walls of that place. She had taken to staying in there during the day when she wasn't off in Paris at ballet rehearsals or meeting with what very few friends she cared to have. She would sit in the massive wing-backed chair in the corner, pulling her legs up to her chest as her arms wrapped around them, closing her eyes and thinking of her own home.

This would inevitably lead to her thinking of Michael, though those were thoughts she knew she had to remove, as painful as that was to admit. Whenever she changed her clothes for a shower, or to put on her leotard, whenever, she would see him pulling her clothes from her skin, see his lips covering her. And then she would see her scars, and almost shake as their night together crossed her mind.

Tonight, she'd done a considerably good job at keeping her mind on her new home, and her new husband, as she walked gently into her large at-home dance studio. She hadn't had practice today, which meant that it had been her day to practice the viola, though she'd neglected the instrument that now rested in the corner of this place. She eyed it curiously as she walked in, the pale moonlight illuminating the case through the lengthy window panes. She approached it, pulling it up onto the table beside it, opening it to find her viola, as well as a small, silverine shapes tucked between three different strings up its neck.

She slowly lowered the lid of the case, shivering as the pendant brought back everything she'd shared with Michael, a small groan escaping her lips as she quietly lowered the case back onto the floor. She shook her head as she looked out the window, staring off into that wooded grove, hiding only the faint illumination of the city that just managed to peer over the tops of the trees.

She left herself there for a few moments, thinking. She hadn't switched to her pajamas yet; she could easily go into the city, even at this hour, and she hadn't been to her favorite café since being here. After doing so well in trying to adjust, surely she deserved some time with some-

"No," she thought to herself, shaking her head, knowing full well what the last part of that word would have been had she thought it.

Turning around, she decided to go ahead and return to her room to sleep, checking the time to find the hands signaling that it was 2:14; much too late for anything good to be happening anywhere. She shook her head as she pushed the doors open, crossing the hallway that led down quite some yardage to the front door.

She looked down at herself, still dressed in her clothes for the day, her eyes peering up toward the door without her head following. Surely he wouldn't be there…right?

"Just a coffee," she muttered to herself.

Amélie walked down the hallway, grabbing a set of keys that laid atop a small, yet elegant, table by the door, bending down to leave a note in case her husband were to awake, before quietly making her way outside of the house that had overtaken her, even with a week having gone by.

As she headed toward the car, she prayed that a certain man wouldn't be in that café to ensure that she'd continue to be overtaken.

* * *

Amélie crossed the length of windows that surrounded the corner building, her head hung low, not wanting to ruin anything by looking inside to find Michael there. She walked hurriedly to the door, passing through the threshold, before looking up, finding nobody in her booth. She gave a sigh of relief as the waitress approached her.

"Madam?" she asked, curiously, "Are you alright?"

"Now I am," Amélie confirmed with a nod.

The waitress nodded as well, "The usual?"

"Yes, please," Amélie answered before strolling over toward her table, relief pouring over her.

She pulled her scarf off, throwing it down the length of the booth, along with her coat once it had come off, leaving her with her black, long-sleeved shirt as she sat down, pulling its sleeves back down over her wrists as she sighed again, relieved. She pulled her phone out, making sure she hadn't been called, and began going through different things until her coffee arrived, leaving the waitress with a slight nod of appreciation.

"Hey," Amélie spoke up, quietly, "Nobody has, uh…"

"Your rude friend hasn't been around in a while, no," the waitress answered pithily, her eye's dropped in an unenthused glare.

Amélie smiled lightly, "Thank you."

The waitress bowed softly before turning to leave, leaving Amélie with a chance to finally enjoy some coffee in this cozy place- a place she knew, enjoyed; a place she hadn't needed to worry about some unknown nook or cranny. More importantly, she knew, no Michael.

She sat there, eyes closed, as she enjoyed the hot beverage working through her, warming her up as reflected on her week. What a whirlwind it had been, she pondered, wondering if she'd ever get the hang of this new home, of this now human being in her life. At least, she figured, other than a new home, for the most part, he'd be off at work, leaving her with little different in her daily life.

She inhaled softly, exhaling, almost as if meditating, until a sudden sound like sliding came from the other side of the table, her body clenching at the sound as her eyes remained closed. Somebody had slipped into the seat opposite of her, and she couldn't bear to open her eyes to see who it was.

"Hola, chica," came a feminine voice, relieving Amélie all the more as she opened her eyes, though they quickly turned suspicious as she saw the same woman who'd met her in the bathroom at her ceremony.

The tanned woman smiled, "You recognize me! It must be the hair, huh? Sorry, I didn't get to introduce myself the last time- I'm Esmeralda. You actually left in such a hurry, I hadn't the chance."

Amélie's forehead curled, curiously, as her guest went on with a smile, "I work with your husband. I meant to make your acquaintance, but again, you scurry like a meercat!"

With what little knowledge Amélie had of her husband and his job, she knew enough to differentiate Overwatch personnel from some random opportunist seeking to take advantage of her. That being said, this woman _had_ been at that gathering, which should have said something in itself. Though, Amélie remained skeptical regardless.

Esmeralda continued with a smile, "How is married life treating you? It's big news around the organization- you know, it doesn't happen often at all. God, you must be so overwhelmed."

Amélie shrugged, "I've managed. It's not as if much will change."

"That's good," her guest replied, relieved, the waitress approaching the table, slightly confused to see Amélie with company after she'd seemed so intent on being alone, "I'll have some of your finest Colombian brew, if you have anything."

Confused, the waitress stared at her, though Esmerelda only cocked a smirk, "Don't worry; some of us are active this late."

The waitress shrugged before turning to walk away, leaving Esmeralda to return her attention to Amélie, whose head was ducked low, staring down at her phone that she had in her hands, hidden by the table. Her eyes peered up at Esmeralda as if being caught, but the guest only laughed.

"Is that your husband?" she asked, leaning onto the table with her elbows, holding her head up with her hands, "Tell him La Dama Escarlata has his wife in good hands."

Amélie stared at her, still suspicious, though she returned to her phone:

-"Hey. I'm out. Some lady says she works with you."

-"Did she give a name?"

Amélie replied, "La Dama Escarlata", before turning up toward Esmeralda, who was staring up, curiously, at the décor of the café, her lips pursed as she "ooo-ed" and "ahh-ed" at different items. Amélie's hand shook before she looked back down.

-"Esmeralda. You're in good hands. Nobody would know to call her Escarlata outside of Overwatch

Amélie breathed a sigh of relief as she closed her phone, reluctantly speaking up, "Sorry."

"Hey, I get it, chica," Esmeralda answered, happily, "Must be nice having that man on speed dial, though. He'd move heaven and earth if it meant accomplishing a mission, much less protecting his pretty, new wife. Has he mentioned anything about his work? Like, what all he's accomplished?"

"Not really," Amélie answered, sipping her coffee, "I didn't ever really put much importance on it."

Esmeralda nodded, "Well you know Talon, right? He basically played jump rope around those fools. For a good while, they had zero success, like, I mean, they couldn't have stolen candy from a child without him catching up to them, he was _that_ good."

She leaned back in her seat as her coffee arrived, smiling grandiosely up toward the waitress in thanks before continuing on, "I'm just a bit-part in Overwatch, though; I don't do any of the exciting things."

Sighing, she took a sip of her coffee, shaking her head rapidly as the strong brew overwhelmed her for a moment, "Maldito, that's heavy!"

Amélie dismissively took a drink of her own, keeping an eye on her guest as she restlessly shifted in her seat, "Hey, you're into ballet, right? I'm pretty sure I've seen you on stage before; you have a certain look."

As Amélie lowered her mug, her stony face revealing itself as Esmeralda snapped a finger before pointing at her, " _That's_ it, right there! Yeah, I've certainly seen you before. What's it like? Dancing like that, I mean; it looks incredible."

"It's nothing much, especially if you've been doing it your entire life," Amélie answered plainly, "There are plenty better dancers out there."

"I don't know," Esmeralda responded, rolling her mug across the table with a low sound of friction, "There aren't many as beautiful as you, that's for sure. Gérard certainly made a good bed to sleep in, so to speak."

Hearing that, Amélie's eyes dropped ever so slightly in suspicion, the woman's words coming across very odd, "I'm lucky to have him as well."

"He's just very…straightforward," Esmeralda noted, tapping a finger against the table, "You know, that's how he got to where he is- a dogged determination. He just has a problem, that narrow determination won't allow him to see the bigger picture. That can't be the same when he sees you, can it?"

Amélie watched her carefully, feeling her teeth clenching at the words of this woman who didn't even know her, or her relationship with Gérard. Though it wasn't much in the grand scheme, that man had done more than enough for her, and at the very least, she valued their relationship. She didn't want it to be deconstructed by this, as far as she was concerned, stranger.

She pushed her mug aside, looking away as she spoke, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm going to go ahead and leave."

"So soon?" Esmeralda answered, pouting, "My curiosity hasn't even been sated yet!"

Amélie pulled her coat toward her as she stood, eying her guest, "And if I see you following me, I won't hesitate to get help."

Esmeralda shrugged, picking up her mug, "Fros-ty. Suit yourself, then."

Her eyes closed as she took in her next sip of coffee, allowing Amélie to turn to leave in peace. As she did, however, she failed to catch Esmeralda's eyes peeking at her, suddenly cupping down the remaining half of her coffee, its burning liquid setting her insides on fire as her brain fired up from all the caffeine. She eyed Amélie like she was prey, even as he stepped out from the café.

As she entered the frigid air, Amélie hurriedly rounded the corner, throwing her scarf over her neck, her normally light steps suddenly clacking loudly as she made her way, quickly, back to her car. She wasn't frightened, though she had the insatiable feeling that something was amiss with that woman.

She pulled out her phone to send another message to her husband, but mid-type, she jumped in surprise at the sound of something falling, crashing into the ground, before she spun around, clutching her coat.

Nothing there.

Her eyes froze, seeking anything that was strange, save for an empty newspaper stand that had toppled over. She slowly returned to her normal direction, wanting to keep her eyes up rather than down at her phone. She still held it out, however, her eyes scanning the area carefully. The winter wind whipped past her ears, almost licking them as they whistled by, her lobes quickly freezing between the sit and the chills running through her body.

Suddenly, she heard another sound behind her, her body quickly whipping around with her hands shooting up to defend herself, "Hey y-!"

She paused, confused, finding nothing there, again. Her brow curled downward in frustration, teeth held against each other as she remained, angrily, staring behind her, waiting for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, in a split second, something that felt like a hand covered her face, her eyes shooting wide as her hand jerked back, grasping at what was definitely an arm in front of her face. She was terrified, enough so that she hadn't the faculties to scream, even if it would have been muffled. Something had ahold of her- something she couldn't even see.

Quietly, a voice appeared at her ear, "Now now, chica, you said if you _saw_ me."

Amélie's eyes turned fierce as she recognized the voice, suddenly struggling as Esmeralda yanked at her, trying to pull her toward a nearby alleyway, her voice rough with tension, "Just- Hold still!"

She did what she could, but Amélie was simply outmatched. Esmeralda knocked the phone from her hand as she tried to pull it up to her face, though this gave Amélie another hand to use in her defense, quickly striking what she could at the air behind her head. She seemed to have connected on one such strike, as Esmeralda cursed in Spanish before nearly tearing at Amélie's face, angrily, trying to reassert her grip.

Suddenly a shot of electricity burst across Amélie's face, ripping a painful shout from behind Esmeralda's hand as tears started streaming down her cheeks. Now more subdued, Esmeralda pulled her into the alley way, groaning angrily as she did, not expecting such resistance.

"Now," Esmeralda began, heatedly, "You're going to take this pill or I'm going to force it down, you hear?"

Amélie gave another burst of fight, though Esmeralda dug her fingernails into her face, causing another painful shriek as she was forced, again, into submission. Esmeralda sighed, shaking her head as she noticed what little power the circuits on her hand had for another blast. She frowned, knowing she had no way to force Amélie around without it.

Still, her captive was unaware of this, and Amélie breathed deeply, heated, her face tear-stricken but savagely angered as she stared off toward the opposing wall, ready to kill this bitch if given the slightest chance. Esmeralda thought for a moment before taking the pill in her hand, trying with a futile push to shove it into her mouth, though Amélie kept her lips tight, starving off whatever this was.

Esmeralda sighed, shaking her head, "Of course we have to do this the hard way…"

Her charge still too low upon her hand, she knew she needed to improvise, and quickly, as she hated to be in such situations for so long, lest some passerby show up. Her free hand fell to her side before suddenly jerking up in front of Amélie, burying itself between her legs as she furiously struggled again, reaching down to pull the foreign appendage away.

Esmeralda angrily grunted at the fight she'd put up, quickly spinning her body and throwing Amélie against the alley wall, the side of her head making a particularly vicious smack against the brick. Amélie's head went limp as she was only held up by Esmeralda, who was none too pleased with the dead weight.

"Come on, chica; you can't swallow if you're unconscious," she grunted, impatiently, just barely keeping her body up until she leaned into the wall for support.

Esmeralda stuck the pill between her two fingers around Amélie's mouth, now content that she wouldn't, or couldn't, cry out, pressing the cylindrical object against her lips, though they still wouldn't budge. Even as weak as she was, her face soiled with tears, Amélie held on, knowing that whatever this was, it wasn't good.

Her invader's eyes skimmed away, almost reluctantly, her muscles tensing as her teeth squeezed together in indecision, Esmeralda finally speaking up, "Sorry."

In that second, her two fingers ran right up inside Amélie, twisting around and through her underwear, a sudden cry escaping her lips just long enough for Esmeralda to shove the pill into her mouth, hurrying to cover her face again, her second hand suddenly jolting from her crotch to squeeze her nose shut.

Amélie began to shake, her breath fading as she rejected the foreign object as best she could, until she felt her vision begin to slip away between tears and darkness. She thought of her husband- what this would do to him; how it would so inconvenience his work.

Then she thought about Michael. That tender touch upon her body in ways that, now, this woman had taken so forcefully from her. Lost between her broken heart and mind, her breath finally ripping a hole in her neck, Amélie swallowed, immediately allowing Esmeralda to relinquish her grip once she saw the reverberation of her neck.

"That's it," she muttered, almost gently.

Amélie coughed through anguished tears, trying to desperately grasp for air as Esmeralda slowly lowered her to the ground, "It's okay, chica. Just let it take you to sleep, okay?"

Her eyes met with Amélie's, an immensely defeated glare looking back at her. So affected was she that Esmeralda looked away, fighting back tears as Amélie released pitiful whines, a hand reaching up to only weakly clutch at Esmeralda's arm.

"Sorry," she muttered, sadly, "You'll thank me later. Maybe not now, or tomorrow. But someday."

Amélie didn't hear her words as her vision began to slip, her heartbeat physically slowing, forcing her lungs to churn slower. She gasped for air, as if she was choking from within, her lungs incapable of speeding up until, finally, her mind gave way to this lack of oxygen, and her eyes shut. She was out. Cold.

Esmeralda gasped for breath, now allowing herself to cry as she fell backwards, tilting toward the wall, reaching up to clutch her head as she brought her knees up, burying her face there, wrapping her arms around her. Her own breath began to quicken as she took in what had happened, her throat becoming dry.

She reached into her pocket, slowly scrolling through, finding the only name she had in there- Maximillien. Her head fell backward, resting against the brick wall as the phone rang, her eyes peering up into the night sky, a steady stream of tears working their way down her cheeks.

*click*

She muttered, quietly, "Sombra here. It's done. Tell me what to do next."

A monotonous, monochrome-like voice answered her, gravely, "Bring. Her. To. Me."

*click*

Her veneer severed in front of Amélie, even if it was beside her lifeless body, Sombra suddenly felt far more exposed than she had been. She reached over, gently stroking Amélie's raven hair, sadly watching her solemn looking face, even if it was blood red from the copious amount of tears. Sombra sighed, standing up, trying to figure out the logistics of getting her away from here, shaking her head."

"Bring her to him," she groaned, sarcastically repeating the man, "Easier said than done, you fucking pendejo. Ugh."

She rolled her eyes, finally settling on an angle, picking the tearful swan up as best she could before dragging her along the cold pavement, toward her car, shaking her head, disgruntled.


	14. quatorze

Amélie was aware that she was out. She would dream, repeatedly, again and again; at a certain point realizing that she was, indeed, sleeping, although not at any risk of waking soon. In her increasing states of lucid dreaming, eventually she ceased to really "dream" at all, simply thinking in her sleep; thinking in some dark place within the depths of her mind. At least she wasn't dead, she figured; though, even then, she couldn't have known that.

The first thing that seemed to give her reason to think that she was still alive us that, despite being asleep and dreaming, she seemed to still be "alive", in that she seemed to still be acquiring memories, as if she were simply working her way through life, seeing things, people, events, but unaware that those things were there, though they entered her mind anyway.

In the darkness of her mind, she saw lights as though through her closed eyelids; she felt the occasional touch- she knew she was still alive, though in some state between being awake and being in a coma of some sort. She remained in this state for some lengthy amount of time, she knew; between her dreams, she would go blank for some amount of time, before entering another cycle of sleep, allowing her the ability to think once again.

In this dark was that seemed to span years of time, she suddenly felt a slowly rising sense of awareness, culminating in her immediately rising into a feeling of warmth cloth atop of her. Through closed eyes, she came to wake up; the bright lights through her eyelids signaling her to remain as such, as the lights were too bright for her even with her eyes closed. She lifted her hands, just barely, running them against the thick wool of a blanket, running them up toward her face, feeling her skin, knowing she was somewhat normal and awake.

Suddenly she heard a subdued gasp from somebody in the room, a feminine voice suddenly speaking up, excitedly, "Nancy! Call the doctor! Oh my god; Mrs. Lacroix, can you hear me?"

Amélie felt pressure beside her, as if this person had leaned onto the bed, supporting herself over her, even able to tell she had been looking right at her. Amélie nodded weakly, her lips attempting to move to speak, but she was unable to.

"It's okay," the voice spoke, calmly, "You've been out for a long time, okay? Your body needs some time to recover, but you'll be alright. Don't freak out or anything."

Amélie suddenly felt a hand pressing against her forehead, moving to both if her cheeks, a gently laugh coming to her, "There's nothing to be frightened of. Can you open your eyes?

She shook her head.

"Is it because it's too bright?"

She nodded.

The nurse grinned, "Alright, I'll make sure they get dimmed for you. You should feel lucky to have a husband like Gérard; it took Dr. Ziegler a particularly large scalpel to keep him back from disturbing you while you rested. Normally, it's important for coma patients to feel touch, but you were in some odd state that nobody had seen before, but you do seem fine from out-"

The door slid open, revealing a young woman grasping ahold of a clipboard, her long hair worked up into a ponytail as it stayed back and forth, hurriedly, in time with her rapid footsteps. The nurse stood up to regain her professionalism, though the doctor barely seemed to notice that she was even there, her nose was so buried in her work.

"Thank god you're awake," she muttered with a sigh, shaking her head, "You would not believe-"

She paused, though Amélie couldn't ascertain why, the voice continuing soon after, "Anyway, we can't find anything wrong with you, so as far as I'm concerned, once you've recovered, I don't mind at all sending you home."

The nurse had run off, and just then, the lights dimmed to a dark orange, the doctor smiling as Amélie began experimenting with opening her eyes, gently opening them before shutting them again at the light, "Just take your time, okay? We're already in a heaping bit of trouble; I'd rather not risk any further issues by you rushing through your recovery."

"Trouble?" Amélie just barely managed.

The doctor groaned, shaking her head, "Just focus on your recovery, dear; okay?"

She reached down to take Amélie's hand, slowly shaking it, "I'm Dr. Ziegler if you need anything. Your husband was quite adamant that the best physician be placed over your care, so I can assure you, you're in good hands."

She stood back up, sighing again, though this time in relief, "You're actually here in Overwatch Headquarters. Ever been to Switzerland?"

Amélie shook her head.

"Well, I'll leave the blinds drawn so the first thing you'll see will be the Alps. How's that?"

Amélie nodded graciously, still trying to work her eyes awake. The doctor watched for just another moment before smiling, turning toward the door and sliding it open and closed as she left the room, turning down the hallway toward Gérard, who was clearly disheveled as he spoke with Jack Morrison, the older man holding his chin worriedly as Dr. Ziegler approached them, groaning.

"Angela; how is she?!" Gérard asked, worriedly.

"She'll be fine, so pipe down," she grumbled in reply, her eyes narrowed, drolly, "This is a ward, not a gymnasium."

"S-Sorry," Gérard apologized worriedly, though he only earned a reassuring smile from the doctor before he continued, turning to Jack, "What did Gabrielle say?"

Through a scruffy breath, Jack answered, "This isn't going to help anything, if that's what you mean."

Angela eyed him, "Is that what she-"

"They're using this abduction as another reason to terminate the program," Jack answered emotionlessly.

Angela nearly snarled in reply, "How the f- We just saved her life!"

Jack shrugged, "If we can't protect somebody married to an agent, how can we be expected to protect anybody, should the need arise? And if that's the case, what good are _we_?"

Gérard's head hung low as he rubbed his face, shaking his head, "I should have known something was up…"

Sighing, Jack reached over, patting him on the shoulder, "Judging from your story, you couldn't have known. That being said, I'm incredibly worried over the fact that somebody managed to learn such colloquial knowledge. Esmeralda works in development; there's no way in hell anybody outside of Overwatch would have known about her at all, much less her nickname."

He wondered quietly as Angela turned to Gérard, gently running her hand up and down his arm, reassuring him as she spoke up, "She's awake and starting to regain her faculties."

Gérard was just about to break into a mad dash before Angela forcefully took his arm in her hand, restraining him, "BUT! she needs rest. She's going to need some time to relearn her senses, and she cant have you fawning over her. I'll allow you to see her, but please, try and retain some composure."

He nodded, quickly, before Angela let him go with a shake of her head, watching him scurry off like a teenager. She frowned at the sight, rolling her eyes as she turned back toward Jack, who was still deep in thought. Her frown became something of a worried look, seeing him becoming more and more grim.

"They're gonna want a report, you know," she noted, quietly.

Jack nodded, "I know. But…"

He looked off down the hallway, as if looking for any signs of eavesdroppers, before slowly speak up again, "You don't think it was a bit too easy, do you?"

Angela wondered, herself, for a moment, "From how Gérard tells it, it wasn't at all."

Jack scoffed, crumbling under his breath, "The man was trailing his wife's kidnapper; of course he tells it like some crazy thing. but I was there. For such a prize as the wife of an Overwatch agent, the third lieutenant for christ sake- they weren't laying down their arms, but…"

He shook his head in disbelief, sighing again, "I don't know, maybe it's just me. I'm just becoming an old dog, I suppose."

Angela smiled, "Sometimes observations become old, not the tricks. We have everybody on this; it'll all come to light, I assure you."

"I suppose," Jack answered, "Though, a part of me hopes that it doesn't."

* * *

Despite her eyes having been open for about an hour now, Amélie simply stared down at the sheets of her bed, not dating to look up at her husband. It disheartened him, and even after insisting that it wasn't her fault, he would remind her of that fact every now and then. He sat in a chair beside her bed, holding her hand gently, the two remaining there, quietly, together.

"Feeling any better?" he asked, feeling some warmth returning to her hand.

She nodded, head still downturned, "Slightly."

"Good," Gérard answered with a sigh of relief, "Good."

He lifted his sight to watch her face, though she didn't bother to move at all, his voice wavering as he spoke up, "D- Do you know who I am?"

Her head lifted just enough for her eyes to peek at him, "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

Slightly miffed, Gérard ran a hand through his hair, "Just…you won't look at me."

His eyes flashed away as he took a breath, "I want to be here to do everything for you, so that you can feel better. But if I can't see your eyes, I-… If you're feeling guilty, my love, that is nothing you have to worry about!"

His hand had tightened around hers as he pulled it up to his face, squeezing it tight as he watched her through weak eyes, "But I couldn't forgive myself if I were to know that it was my doing that you-"

As if feeling his tears welling up, and refusing to allow them to appear, Gérard simply stopped talking, shutting his eyes as he buried his face in his wife's hand, hiding himself from her as she lifted her head to watch him, sadly. She pulled her hand away from him, which he allowed without a fight, even if he could feel his heart breaking as she did so, though he was revitalized, his eyes shooting open, as her hand rested against his chin, their eyes meeting.

While he fought back his tears, Amélie was faced with hers already running down her cheeks, "I-I'm sorry. I never wanted to be a burden that you had to-"

"You're not," Gérard clarified, through a shacking voice, "You couldn't ever be a burden, my love. None of this was by your doing; you must understand that. I will go to my grave knowing that, without a doubt. Something happened that shouldn't have- I was the one who should have been there with you and I-…"

He shook his head, "I'm just… I'm just sorry."

Amélie pulled her hand back to her bed, clutching the blankets as her teeth bit at her bottom lip, tensed, as she wondered aloud, "Well, what now?"

Gérard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair, running his hands along his face in exasperation, "Well, uh… Right now, all we can really do is remain in our home. It may still be safe, considering where all this went down, but we'll still have some security brought in to keep an eye out."

He paused, bringing his fist to his face as he bit against his knuckle, worriedly, "When I decided I would marry you… I never wanted to force you to, you know, have to change anything. I tried so hard to keep it normal for you, knowing that we'd only known each other for a few months- you'd have enough new stuff with me and the house. And with all this, I mean; I don't want you to have to give up your life, but… but I don't know what else we should…"

Trailing off, Gérard's face fell, sliding down his open hand as his body shook, the tell-tale signs of his tears, though it took every part of him to remain silent. Amélie watched him, silent herself, her brow furrowing sadly. She looked down at the edge of the bed, grasping the mattress as she pulled her body sideways until her legs fell down the side of the bed, dangling there. She pushed herself far enough off for her feet to touch the ground, just barely feeling the cold floor beneath her as her nerves desperately ran unanswered sparks up her body.

She pushed herself up onto her feet, though remained holding the bedframe to support herself. Her teeth gritted painfully as she let go, taking a careful step toward her husband, the ultimately goal to hug him immediately, and literally, beginning to crash around her as she began to wobble, slowly at first, but quickly enough, her legs began shaking wildly as she tried to remain upright.

Gérard quietly muttered, his head slowly lifting itself, "I just don't-!"

Immediately met with the collapsing frame of Amélie, he couldn't even move before her body crashed into him, his arms desperately attempting to cling onto her as she slid down him toward the floor, holding her tightly, yet gently, against himself, terribly confused.

"A- Amélie?!" he questioned, worriedly.

She sadly stared up at him, deterred in her goal, "You needed a hug."

Gérard sighed as he stood up, still holding her, though he quickly bent down and picked her up by her legs, like a princess, before sitting back down, holding her close as he sat her down in his lap between his arms, allowing her to turn her body to hug him.

"I knew you were headstrong, but that was rather unexpected," he chuckled, as if hiding his worry.

Amélie agreed quietly, "I suppose."

They became quiet for a time. Amélie had been feeling a chronic chill from within her, as if she'd had an ice cube implanted within her, unmeltingly freezing her from within. In these arms, though, with her own arms wrapped around her husband's neck, it was the first feeling of warmth she'd felt since waking.

"You saved me?" she asked, quietly, into his ear.

He nodded seriously, "We did. We tracked them down and came and got you."

Gérard chuckled lightly, "Though, I think I was more out of my mind than anything. I didn't want to give them any time to hurt you. From the looks of it, it looks like I succeeded. I couldn't live if I had allowed any harm to come to you."

He trailed off in thought, holding Amélie tighter in his arms as he spoke up once more, "You know, they've had statues built to Jack and some of the others. I used to think I wanted my own, but now… You know, the only monument I want a life built with you. I know we barely know each other and all, but I think it I was so adamant about protecting you, I think that means something."

He turned his head to look at Amélie's face, which had been resting on his shoulder, her eyes staring back at him, tiredly, as he continued, "If you want to keep living your life like normal, I want nothing more than that for you, to keep you happy. Just know that, never again, will I allow you to have to go through this again. I will spend every waking minute keeping you coming home to me."

Amélie's eyes shimmered as she watched him, before her head nodded gently, her eyes closing as she leaned it down toward the nape of his neck, his warmth putting her to sleep. Gérard smiled as he lowered his head, hoping to make it more comfortable for her. He felt the gently breathing past her nose, the soft hair against his skin. All was right, he thought.

Then he felt a gently press of her lips against his shoulder.

All was right, he knew.


	15. quinze

The two returned home within a week, promptly after Amélie had blown the minds of all her physical therapists with her speedy recovery. Given her history with ballet, it wasn't too odd to imagine, though with the quickness in which it had happened, it was truly baffling. Still, it meant the two could return home sooner and, in Gérard's mind, meant they could return to some sense of normalcy, though he very easily allowed Amélie the freedom to dictate the atmosphere. Being quite accommodating, still, had there been a night where she was prepared to fly out to some place safer, Gérard would have hastily made the arrangement.

He carefully helped her up the steps toward their home, slowly following at her side until they made it inside, leaving Gérard with a relieved sigh as he let her go so he could rush back for their luggage, "Okay, well that was a trip."

Amélie looked up toward him, "And you remember the rule?"

He nodded, smiling, "Do not dote on you. Do not worry, do not grieve. Let's just move on. How's that?"

She nodded, closing her eyes, "Perfect. I just want to get back to normal."

"Your wish," Gérard began, bowing regally, "Is my command, milady."

He grasped her hand, bringing it up to his face, gently pressing his lips against her before pulling away with a smile, softly releasing her as he turned to leave again. Amélie gave a quick, deep sigh as she examined the house that had felt so foreign to her- now it looked positively homey after everything that had happened.

She began through the large mansion of a house, gingerly making her way past the hallway, entering her large ballet studio, which had overtaken the study as being the most comforting room in the house. She stood there at the door, keeping a grasp on the door handle, as if holding herself back, before she finally let go, walking toward the middle of the room. She bent down, taking a seat there, cross-legged, just staring out the lengthy window that met her, staring out into the distance.

She remained there for a time, as if trying to recount something that had been lost within her mind, staring off as if the trees of the grove somehow held the answer. Hey eyelids dropped to slits as she stared more and more intently, working her way deeper into her thoughts, but finding nothing there. It was a feeling she hasn't felt before; like a portion of her mind had been blocked off. It worried her, though given the nature of what had happened, she wondered if she had simply blocked off some sort of trauma of having been kidnapped.

Breathing lightly, she heard Gérard enter the room, quietly shutting the door behind him, standing there, watching Amélie's distant air. She didn't acknowledge his presence, simply continuing what she was doing, though she jumped in shock as he took a step further into the room, even though she knew he was there.

"Sorry," he spoke up, his hands raised, innocently.

Amélie shook her head, groaning, "No, you- you're fine. I'm just a bit lost right now."

Gérard shoved his hands in his pockets, "Well, can I help in any way? I'm not a psychiatrist, as Dr. Ziegler says all the time, but I don't know; maybe if you had the chance to talk?"

She looked toward him for a moment, finally nodding, "…yeah, I think that would help, actually."

Her husband nodded, walking toward her, bending to take a seat beside her, sighing with exhaustion as he did, pulling his knees into his chest to wrap his arms around, "Alright. You're lost right now."

Amélie nodded slowly, "I think it may be due to everything that's gone on, but… There's definitely something in my mind, you know, sort of blocking itself off. I can remember so much still, but the last month or so…there's just something missing."

Gérard remained still, listing to her, before speaking, "Do you remember me?"

"Of course," she replied, quickly, "I remember meeting you, our courtship, that night we announced our…"

As she recalled that night, then and there, she suddenly realized a block in her memory, her eyes squinting as she focused, unable to bring it back, simply finishing"…engagement."

Turning toward her, Gérard thought aloud, "Maybe it's like finding something you misplaced. Instead of retracing your steps, you retrace your memories. Did you forget any of your ballet stuff?"

"Actually, now that you mention it," Amélie began, "There was a specific performance that I'm completely lost on. I know I performed the play, but I can't see the dance to figure it out."

Gérard nodded, "Okay, so why not dress in your ballet outfit and dance; maybe it'll come to you?"

Amélie turned to him quickly, pointing at him with a rapid nod, "That's not a bad idea at all."

Smiling as she jumped to her feet, Gérard pulled his phone out, "I'll look up some plays; see if I recognize any you may have done."

Amélie hurried over toward the corner of the room, where a large armoire stood behind a large, elegantly painted screen. Opening the cabinet to show an assortment of ballet clothes, she began examining each piece, her mind racing as her hands pulled hangers down along the rod that held all of her leotards and tutus.

"I do know I first saw you during 'La Bayadere'," Gérard muttered, his fingers scrolling down a list of different ballets, "I'm guessing it's something obscure if you can't remember it. Let's see…"

He began rounding off different ballets as Amélie slowly undressed, looking at herself, sidelong, in a tall mirror at her side as she pulled her shirt off, staring at her stomach warily. She noticed scars, some deeper than the others, her finger running the length of one of the more prominent ones. Her mind flared for just a brief moment, as if remembering something from long ago, as if almost recalling a dream.

She pushed her hands down her body, grasping at the elastic around her waist, pulling her sweatpants down her legs. Her eyes narrowed curiously; where did all these scars come from? They trailed all over her inner thighs, running crisscross up and down, almost as far up as where her legs came together, obscured by her underwear.

Confused, Gérard's voice became a white noise, simply remaining in the background. Her fingers stayed at the outer ridge of her underwear, riding the line just above her skin, her mind wandering as deep as it could. She saw something of a mirage in her head; a shape coming to form, though blurred in every sense of their being. Her fingers suddenly trailed between her legs, her breath immediately taken away as she shivered.

She sat down on her stool, just barely avoiding collapsing there on the spot. Her hands clutched either side of the wooden, round disk she sat on, her body leaning forward as an ill feeling ran through her body, as if she were about to throw up. Tears began to well up, now only due to her insides turning inside out, but this vision of somebody who had taken her body- she'd given herself to them, and she couldn't even remember their face.

Her entire body churning behind that screen, Gérard simply went on, unaware, muttering aloud, "Les Biches? You know, that was- what was it… It was based on that Chopin thing."

His fingers snapped as he tried recalling it, "Ah! Les Sylphides, that's it. You didn't do either of those, did you?"

Suddenly, Amélie's body began to dry heave as she sat there, tears flowing down her face as her body began to revolt, wincing and winding in the pit of her stomach. Sylfide. She was so close to seeing the man she loved, but as if the greatest thing to happen to her had been torn from her, her stomach began tearing at her.

She quickly stood up, rushing past the screen toward the door, Gérard frantically following her with his eyes as he suddenly noticed her rush, quickly jumping to his feet in chase. Amélie hastily ran to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, locking it instantly as she dove for the toilet, falling to her knees and keeling over, feeling like her insides were about to leap out from within.

"Amélie?!" Gérard shouted from outside, "Are you okay?!"

She didn't reply, her tears now pouring from her eyes, unable to. Her entire body shook as she desperately clung to the frigid porcelain, her fingernails digging into the pristine ceramic. Her hair had been drenched in her sweat, clinging to her face as she dry heaved over the still waters beneath her, not even bothering to clear her raven hair.

The door had gone silent, presumably due to Gérard having gone for help, but Amélie only cried, quietly, a churning mass from within her finally working its way up her throat. She jerked forward to throw up, but just before it exited her, it caught in her throat, her eyes jerking wide as she suddenly was left without access to air. Her pain turned to sheer panic, her body now robbed of oxygen.

She immediately threw her fingers deep into her throat, working up another fit of purging. She jerked again as her body expected her to vomit, but nothing came. She shoved her fingers deep into her throat again, her body now choking, though as her body fell forward once more, the mass finally blew past her airway, leaving her in a coughing fit as she fell to the floor, gasping for breath, her cries of anguish echoing through the walls as she clung onto herself, her half-naked torso freezing against the tiled floor, though after her body had burned with what had occurred, the cold floor offered a slight respite.

She stared up into a light above her, sitting in the ceiling, eyeing back at her. Her body began to calm down as she took in her breaths, rapidly at first, though even they had begun to slow as she began to return to normal. Her head tilted backward, eyes closed, as her arms, wrapped around her stomach, tightened, as if feeling her body beginning to fade away, wanting to keep it close by.

A gentle knock came at the door, accompanied by the wavering voice of Gérard, "Amélie?"

Her eyes trailed toward the door as her head leaned to the side, "I-… I'm okay."

A quiet sigh came from her husband, along with a scratching as if his hand had run down the door in relief, "A-Are you sure?"

Amélie nodded to herself, "Yes…"

Another pause came from the door before Gérard spoke up again, quietly, "Okay. I'll keep one of the housekeepers out here until you're ready to come out. I'll go make preparations; do you think you need to just go to bed and rest?"

"Y-Yeah," she answered, quietly, "I'll do that."

Her husband pressed his hand firmly against the door, leading to a gently bumping sound, his voice coming through, almost as a whisper through the wooden door, "I love you."

Amélie didn't answer, leaving the air quietly until Gérard quietly left his post outside the door, leaving Amélie alone, her body lying on the frigid bathroom floor, tears and bile running down her chin and neck.

Having cooled down, her back quickly began to feel frozen, so she lifted herself up, weakly, leaning against the toilet to support herself. Feeling unable to walk still, she simply remained there, hanging her head low, eyeing the shower, wondering if she could crawl over there, the promise of hot water coming across as quite appealing.

Before doing so, she turned to the handle at the top of the toilet, sighing as she reached over, wanting to forget the misery she had just endured. Her body leaned over the soiled water as she reached over, her eyes catching something of a glimmer within the dark water. She carefully lowered her gaze, following the bright glow that was obscured by bile.

She reached down into the bowl, slowly, dipping her hand into the mess as she grasped the object that had left her body, pulling it up to view it. It was silver, its edges curled into the shape of an 'M', its rightmost end curled into a tail. Her eyes couldn't leave it, almost as if it had her hypnotized, the inner mechanisms of her mind beginning to whir awake as they ran over the object's ridges. As some place in her mind began to slowly clear up, the majority of her mind began to take its place, fading into obscurity, as if she were exchanging one state of mind for another, without her knowledge.

She stared at the door, where Gérard Lacroix had just been standing, her eyes just narrowing as her gaze traced down toward the door handle. What an opportunity she had missed, she suddenly thought.

A thought popped into her mind. She wouldn't allow him to escape a second time.

* * *

A/N: You're officially reading the fan-fic with the most research done when it comes to ballet! xD Just for clarification, Gerard found the ballet 'Les Biches', which was originally meant to be based on 'Les Sylphides' (a plot-less ballet based on Chopin's music); this ballet, of course, shares a similar name to 'La Sylphide', which has been reference earlier in this story; and, if you look it up, besides the parallels already mentioned in this story, has a lot of similarities to Amelie and Michael.

Fun times! I've actually managed to learn quite a lot about ballet since starting this story xD


	16. seize

Darkness fell upon the chateau, leaving the interior with an unmistakably calmer feel to it. Its hallways lined with shadows, lit only by the faint lights left on for Amélie to find her way around as she prepared for bed. She stood in her own bathroom now, staring into her dark eyes within the mirror, her hands straightening out her silken pajamas. Her face was the same emotionless façade that she always held, though now, it held a sunken, intense feel to it.

She reached down without her eyes leaving the mirror, grabbing ahold of a large, lengthy pin with a ball at the end, grasping it with her fingers as she hunched her hair together, throwing her hair into circles until it bunched together, her hand gently shoving the pin through the ball of hair to retain its shape.

*knock* *knock*

"Amélie?" Gérard spoke up from the other side if the door, "Do you need anything?"

Her eyes narrowed intensely as she answered, lowly, "No."

An agreeing pause followed before Gérard spoke up, quietly, "Okay. I'll be retiring for the night, but, please, if you need anything…don't hesitate to ask."

Amélie's hands wrapped around either side of the sink as he went on, "You know, it breaks my heart to see you going through all this. You know, I promised a lot when we married, and if you'd allow it, I'd like to fulfill them all. Just…I'm here for you."

Her face tensed, slightly, before she heard footsteps trailing off. She dropped her head, staring at the silverine piece that she'd sat near the faucet, her mind feeling at the thought. She turned to the door, suddenly, to leave, shutting off the light before walking down the long, cozily dark hallway. Her legs crossed over one other, as she took each step, the silken pajamas swishing as she went along, hair done up.

She knew that she was following Gérard's path up to his bedroom, though she was well aware of the fact that, as a married couple, it was to be hers as well. It was a promise they had made on their wedding day, and finally, she knew, she would make good on that promise, the same way her husband seemed intent on making good on his.

She came to the double doors of his bedroom, slowly reaching the side of her head over, pressing her ear against the wooden door, hearing nothing but the running of water,. He'd apparently gone for a shower, so she grasped the door handle, pushing carefully into the room, not turning back as she pushed it shut again. Her fingers fiddling until, with a soft 'click', she had locked the door behind her.

She strutted toward the foot of the bed, falling backward to sit there, legs crossed, as her hands sat on either side of her, stretched as far as they could. She eyed the closed door of the bathroom, listing to the crashing water of the shower, thinking to herself, silently. She looked down, quickly undoing the topmost button of her silken shirt, exposing more of her chest, her face grimacing as she pondering appearing even more provocative. She wisely chose against it; this would be his first time with her, after all.

She jumped at the sudden cry of the shower faucet as it was shut off, listening to the noises that accompanied Gérard's exit. Amélie sighed lowly, preparing herself as the bathroom door slowly opened, revealing Gérard there, his head covered by a towel as he dried his hair. He walked toward a chest of drawers across the room in white cotten bath robe, suddenly pausing as he noticed Amélie there upon his bed.

"A-Amélie?" he asked, confused, unable to keep his eyes from wandering down her body, though only for a moment, quickly returning his eyes to hers.

Her face darkened into a demure, seductive glance as she pulled her head back low, exposing more of her torso, though she didn't speak. Gérard was left confused, though he quickly fiddled with the towel in his hands, nervously.

"I, uh, I'm not sure what to say," he began, finally, "I must admit, I'm rather, um, stunned by this; are you sure that you're alright?"

She nodded as she leaned forward, rising to her feet, her voice quiet and warm, "You've been so good to me."

Amélie reached him, pressing her body against his as her arms reached around his neck, her hands playing with his damp hair as she stared up into his eyes, "You're so warm… I wish I had known that sooner. After everything that's happened, I feel so very cold."

Gérard watched her carefully, still rather confused, "I understand, but I- I mean, I don't think this is the right time for-"

She interrupted his words as she buried her face into his neck, gently kissing and sucking at his skin, leaving him to slowly release a groan at the sensation, raising his hands to place on her shoulders, gently pushing her away, "O-Okay, I think we need to sit and talk about- Amélie, you've been through a lot and I think we both need to just…pause for a second and think this through. I mean, last time you slept in this home, you weren't even comfortable being in this room with me."

Amélie shook her head, "That was before you saved me. Before I knew how warm, how strong you were…"

She leaned in closer, her lips leading the way, though Gérard was quick to raise his hand, holding them back with a press of his finger against their soft skin. Her eyes, which had taken a rather sultry stare, jumped open in surprise, though they quickly fell narrow as she reached up, her hand grasping around his. Keeping it in place, she gently rose to her toes, kissing his finger instead, carefully running her tongue along the tip, obscured by her lips.

"…how good you tasted," she finished, her puppied eyes glaring up toward his own.

Gérard could feel his heart begin to race, though he remained resistant, slowly attempting to pull away, nearly yanking his finger away in the first place once she'd taken it into her mouth.

She eyes him innocently, noticing that he was only backing up into a wall, following along in front of him until he suddenly slammed into the wall, his head instinctively turning over his shoulder, returning to find Amelie against him once more, her eyes nearly wet with tears as she hid her face against his chest, wrapping her arms around him in a hug.

"You were so sweet," she muttered, quietly, "You were so ready to keep your promises…"

Her head turned up toward him, her chin roughly digging into his chest, her breath rather slow given the situation. Gérard watched her distantly, losing himself more and more in the proposition, his mind beginning to tear at his senses. She reached up for the back of his head again, pulling him down into a kiss, her lips bouncing from his top and bottom as she gently took his soft skin ever so delicately into her mouth.

"Please allow me to keep mine," she breathed, heatedly, their foreheads against one another's in between kisses.

Gérard simply stood there, more lost in Amélie than the situation. As she reached down for the belt of his robe, slowly undoing the simply knot, he didn't resist, simply allowing his wife to yank it undone, her breath releasing a quiet gasp as she pushed the cotton material apart, his nude body coming into full view, as if it were a showroom. Her head unmoved, her eyes shot up toward his, a grin spreading across her face, though Gérard stared back at her, almost unsure of what was even going on.

Her dainty hands pressed against his muscular stomach, her fingers running down the ridges of his abdominals, her deep breaths shaking as she felt how tight they were. Her hands eventually began to run up the length of his torso, back around him to behind his shoulders, pulling herself up so gracefully upon his sturdy frame, their lips meeting once again, despite Gérard eyes remaining open, still shocked by what was occurring before him.

Amélie took her leg and lifted it up to wrap around him, pulling him in closer against her, her breath becoming slightly more heated as she felt him down against her legs, her skin causing Gérard to finally break from his trance and shut his eyes in a mad gasp for breath. It didn't last long, though, as Amélie had already begun taking his lips with hers, though now, Gérard was in on the act, unable to think about much else besides the angelic body before him, thinking only of pleasing this being who was so desperately doing the same for him.

Her hand slid down his tightly woven stomach, gently grasping at him as a quick shiver ran down his body alongside an immediately jerk of his waist. His eyes opened to watch her, only to find her still staring up at him, her tongue lapping up at the saliva running down her chin, an absolutely devilish grin coming across her face as her thumb ran along his length.

"You gonna dance for me?" she mumbled, heatedly, as his hips continued to intermittently jerk awake at the sensation surrounding his lower body.

Gérard began releasing bestial groans as he clutched onto Amélie's arms, holding on more to his sanity than to her. Her eyes never left him, though as he worked up to his weakest state of being, she pulled away, grinning, as his eyes flew open, his heart about to beat out his chest.

"F-Fuck," he managed, frustrated at not reaching his peak, though Amélie only cocked a wider smirk, stepping back toward the bed, bringing a finger in gesture calling for him.

He obeyed, instantly, leaving Amélie pleased with how subservient he became in that primal search for pleasure. She grinned as he grabbed her, as if about to passionately throw her to the bed, but she resisted, pulling him to the side.

"Sit," she ordered.

He obeyed, without any argument, before she pushed her pants down off her legs, crawling on top of him and pushing his torso down onto the bed as she straddled him from above, staring down at him from a distance that seemed far too vast for how far they actually were. She paused, staring at him; a blur in her mind awoke, the vision of a man, another man, for whom she'd shared this same posture. This same act for that matter. Her eyes fell slightly, as she focused on that visage of a man in her mind, curiously.

Gérard, lost in his own world of pleasure, kept his eyes closed as his hands ran up and down Amélie's legs, his eyes squinting open only to watch his hands rising up to undo the buttons of her silken shirt, a wry grin emerging upon his face as her naked breasts emerged before him. She leaned forward, resting her hands upon his sturdy chest, the added pressure only heightening the intensity upon the man beneath her.

Her fingers trailed along his ribs, counting them as her finger ran down his side:

"One…"

Gérard reached down between her legs, aiming himself as he gently pushed his wife down onto himself, a sultry moan escaping him as he fell backwards, eyes closed, simply enjoying the immense pleasure flowing from his waist.

"Two…"

He began to move his pelvis up toward her, holding onto her hips as he timed his thrusts with where he was directing her hips, almost as if taking the lead on a dance. With every entry, a gasp escaped him as his neck arched with his head rolling backward against the mattress.

"Three…."

Even with his penetration, Amélie only managed a wince at her face, as if feeling nothing from their union, only focused on the ribs along his side, the motion of her finger pushing into his ribs a slightly intimate for her husband as he gained speed, his breaths increasing rapidly, breathing hotly moist air into the air as his mind escaped him more and more.

Amélie crossed his fourth rib, her finger stopping along with the soft voice escaping her lips, "Four…"

In a split second, her hand flew up behind her head, grasping the large pin in her hair, before throwing her hand back down to his side, shoving the large piece of metal into his side, Gérard's eyes shooting open as a large shout burst from his open mouth. His body began to shake as his hands trembled, running up her torso as he watched her, terrified, as he felt his insides searing in pain.

Amélie's breathes shook now as she held the pin in place, her eyes meeting her husband's, falling to his lips as the motioned weakly in a vain attempt at speaking. Blood began to fill his mouth, his lung having been punctured. Amélie's face turned fierce, yanking the large metal object from inside him, taking it up into the air, grasping it with both hands before dropping it onto his torso with a mighty thrust, again and again, his body becoming more and more like a pincushion as he lay there, limp, though she continued stabbing him, intensely, her voice escaping as a beastly roar under her breath, the pin shoving in every which place it could.

Finally, she shoved it into him one last time, leaning over his dead body, head limp, as she clutched the ball atop her weapon, catching her breath. She could still feel him inside her, though slowly enough, she began to empty of him as his body continued to pour out blood onto the sheets of their bed. Amélie took in deep breaths, eyeing her torso, covered in blood spatter, before looking up to find the walls in much the same state.

She stared at his lifeless face, contorted in a painful expression, and just like that, it was as if a switch had flipped inside her mind. Her eyes burst wide open, her hands shooting to cover her face in horror as she fell backwards, away from the corpse, falling off the bed in the process. She scurried to sit up, hurrying to push herself away from the scene in terror. Tears immediately poured from her eyes as she understood what had happened, pushing herself into a wall before stopping, her body trembling endlessly in shock.

There her husband was, laying on his back, naked, upon his bed in a pool of red blood, this liquid also covering the walls, sheets, headboard; everywhere she looked was his blood. She pulled her hands to her face, both of them covered in red as they trembles heavily, her eyes wide in growing panic at what she had done.

In all this horror, a thought came into her mind, suddenly. She slowly turned her head to phone sitting atop a dresser nearby. She crawled over as best she could, falling onto her face at one point from her arms giving way from how much they were shaking. Finally there, she rushed to grasp it, pushing in some numbers and hastily bringing the receiver to her ear.

*click*

"Hello?!" Amélie shouted, sniffling through her tears, her voice just barely able to keep from cracking.

Silence came first, but slowly enough, a voice emerged, "Is it done?"

Amélie paused, slowly turning to the corpse of her husband, suddenly becoming still as she sat there, frightened, "Is…Is what done?"

"Have you made yourself a widow, chica?" the voice spoke, gravely.

Amélie didn't reply, thought the voice continued, "I can tell by your breathing that you are. This number popped into your head, did it not?"

She nodded, unable to realize that the voice couldn't ascertain such a thing, though the feminine voice seemed to understand anyway, "Look… You have two options. You can go to jail for the murder of your husband, or you can come with me. What do you say, hermana?"

"What…What…" Amélie muttered, shivering.

The voice released a sigh, "You suffered some heartbreak in the past, that blur in your mind? and I made it go away. If you come with me, I can make this all go away as well. You'll never have to remember this."

Amélie's eyes quivered as they stared at the body of Gérard Lacroix, dead. Her eyes trailed downward, her tears building up to the point where she could no longer see clearly, sitting there, defeatedly, in a small pool of her husband's blood. She brought her hand up, rubbing her face, though in the process began to bring her hand into a fist, clawing at her skin as if in punishment as she continued to cry.

"Amélie," the voice went on, quietly, "I will never forgive myself for being the one to get you into this. If you just…go along with it, I promise, I'll make it up to you one day, okay, hermana?"

Amélie dropped her arm to the ground as she sat there, miserable. She felt nothing by now, her tears having worked every bit of emotion out of her. She looked up toward her husband again, slowly rising to her feet. She approached his dead body, placing a knee onto the bed so she could lean toward him, slowly leaving a final kiss on his bloodied cheek, along with a few of her own tears, before returning to stand, bringing the phone up to her head once again.

"W-Where do I go..?"

* * *

Sombra slowly sat her phone down, quickly crossing her arms across her desk to bury her face there, sadly. Guilt ran through her, manifested as a quiver down the length of her spine as she sat there, staring into the darkness entangled within her arms, her heart having sunk to its lowest depths. Her fingers managed to find her scalp, gently scratching through her hair in some attempt to calm down.

She knew, full well, what she had done. She had seen the very life of Amélie Lacroix nee Guillard- a life so endlessly dictated by others. By her parents, by her instructors; every piece of her had been molded by another's hands. Then she met a man, this Michael Hale, and she gained the courage to use her body the way she had wanted to, for once; not for anybody else's intentions or pleasures but her own.

Leaning back in her chair, Sombra weakly stared up into the ceiling. She knew what would become of this woman- what had already become of her. Amélie would become a tool of Talon's; not only her body, but her soul, now endlessly belonging to anybody but herself.

She sighed, reaching down to pull out a drawer of her desk, sadly pulling out a lively bottle of brandy, followed by two glasses, gently pouring the dark liquid into the crystal vessels. She slid the bottle aside, taking a giant gulp of one glass, slamming it onto the desk as she leaned back into her chair once more, shaking her head.

"Just come out; joder!" she groaned, rolling her eyes, "Goddamn, you'd think I wasn't aware of you skittering around by now."

Opposite her, a white mask of a skull appeared from the shadows, the same dark cloaked figure from before appearing in a haze, his body materializing from nothingness, "I thought you might have caught on."

"I'd have hoped so," Sombra's eyes rolled, "I might have plenty to drink for, but I'd always choose just the bottle over two glasses."

She eyed him suspiciously, "And no, I'm not a drunkard or anything."

Gabriel turned down to the floor, kicking an empty bottle into a pile of similar vessels, the mass of glass suddenly crashing through the air as Sombra frowned, "Okay, maybe tonight. But you can't exactly blame me."

"Mission succeeded?" he asked.

Sombra groaned with a nod, "Yes, in all the wrong ways at that. Poor girl…"

Gabriel reached for the glass of brandy, bringing it up to his face, holding it there; although his mask retained no emotion or expression, he was clearly speaking pithily, "You know I can't drink."

Finally, the tiniest of smirks appeared across Sombra's face, "Maybe just pour it down one of those holes up there. If you're going to gain anything of your former self, I'd assume getting drunk would be high up there."

She kicked one of the empty bottles littering the ground, "I know it would be for me."

She paused as she stared off into the darkness, gloomly, as if peering into oblivion. Gabriel noticed, simply standing there. He found that time worked different for him, especially at times like this, where an awkward pause might emerge. With no real brain or body, he wasn't exactly motivated by other amusements and, therefore, silences were mostly dead time for him.

Sighing, Sombra picked up the bottle of brandy, simply taking a swig from the glass container, "You're not gonna tell Max about-"

"No," Gabriel muttered, quietly, "As far as he knows, it was a job well done. _Very_ well done, at that. You're helping me accomplish my goals, so as long as you bother doing that, I don't mind helping with yours. Even your personal ones."

Sombra nodded, lowly, "Thanks…for looking out."

Shaking his head swiftly, Gabriel answered, "Don't. It's just business."

She laughed, sadly, as she returned her head to her arms, "Just make sure they go easy on her. She didn't ask for this."

" _I_ didn't ask for this," Gabriel replied, heatedly, though he quickly cooled down, "But I'll see what I can do."

Sombra didn't speak for a moment, not until she heard the faintest sound of trailing boots, "I'd thank you, but you obviously have no interest in such things."

She couldn't see his head tilting in amusement, "Just help me cross the rest of these names off my list. Then, and only then, will we share thanks."

"Hey, you need to help cross the one off mine," Sombra's body shot up, annoyed, "Don't you dare forget that."

Gabriel paused, turning around, "Of course not. Let's just make sure neither of these lists grow any longer- that would be a shame as far as our working together is concerned."

"Please," Sombra cocked a grin, "We both know you can't help but check in on me because you can't help but get a look at me."

Gabriel only stared at her, unamused, before turning, "Stick to figuring out how to hack into living brains. You won't have the same success with somebody who's dead."

He groaned to himself as he left, leaving Sombra to fall backward into her seat, dramatically, hanging her head to the side, thinking, again, of Amélie. Her expression dropped, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," she muttered to herself, "If I could have done more with your mind…the things I could do. You might not have hurt so much…"

Her eyes slowly trailed over toward her computer monitor. She noted a folder on her desktop, simply titled "OW_Ops", her eyes narrowing for a brief moment before her finger suddenly twitched, the cursor following along as her finger wove through the air, the rest of her hand unmoved.

Opening the folder, she scrolled down to find the name of a particular person, her lips pulling to one side in deep thought, only a small voice escaping her, "Huh…"


	17. épilogue

The clattering of silverware against plates rang throughout the whole of the Panorama Diner, particularly at this time of day. A rather crowded diner for such a desolated spot, its dishes were rather liked, but more importantly, this area had become a rather large tourist attraction at the conclusion of the local Deadlock Gang. In fact, the diner had a small museum in the back, along with a large piece of the train that the gang had destroyed- a testament to their highest point of activity.

Waitresses ran back and forth from the kitchen, while the chef in back quickly tried to keep up demand. Despite the activity, the staff were very friendly, and in a third reason for this diner's resurgence, the cashier behind the counter was rather boisterous himself, always offering friendly conversation, walking up and down the bar, passing out food and drink, while always offering a smile.

He came down to the farthest end, toward a rather isolated man, head down against the bar, as his half-drunk cup of coffee sat before him, still steaming. The cashier eyed him curiously, even though such suspicious individuals weren't exactly foreign to these parts.

"Hey man, you need anything else?"

He shook his head, not moving otherwise, which gave the cashier a quick shrug in response, the old man turning, happily, toward the other customers along the bar. The man remained mostly still and quiet, only bothering to lift himself up for another small sip of his coffee. He'd been there a good hour or so, now, and didn't seem ready to move along any time soon.

The bell atop the front door rang out, a man clad in a cowboy hat and a shawl wrapped around his neck stepping into the dinner, his boots and spurs clacking as he stepped along the floor. The cashier turned and excitedly grinned as he nodded with anticipation.

"Well howdy, Jesse! You want the usual?!"

"Please," the man, Jesse replied, pulling a barstool out to take a seat, two spots down from the quiet man.

The cashier prepared the order, turning away before Jesse sighed, pulling his hat off, politely, and sitting in atop the stool between the two men, hanging his head exhaustedly as it shook, "Man oh man, what a day."

As he lifted himself up, he noticed the quiet man, his eyes turning into slits as he eyed him, curiously, reaching over to give his shoulder a gentle shrug, though it elicited no response from the man.

"Now, if I had a nickel for every morning I looked like that…" Jesse grinned slyly, pulling his arm back, "You'd best keep your eyes up, buddy. This place might be better than it used to be, but there's still the occasional brawl and whatnot."

Jesse shook his head as he pulled his arms up onto the counter to support himself as he sighed again, "You ain't one of those guys comin' in here to start something, are ya?"

The man shook his head in reply, a soft voice escaping his downturned head, "No."

"Good," Jesse smirked, "You wouldn't want to mess with me."

He subtly reached his hand down, seemingly for his wallet, which he did grab, though he also managed to shake his set of keys that dangled from his belt on the way, the jingling barely sounding in the loud diner. The man's head moved only slightly as he stared at the collection of keys, his eyes following a specific, golden piece, rounded, with some design on it.

He looked up, finally, turning toward Jesse, "Overwatch?"

Jesse nodded, "And former Deadlock, so, if you _are_ here to hold somebody up, this is your only warning- I can pull out my gun and fire before you can take a breath."

The man's forehand crinkled in confusion, "Do you always sit next to the shadier customers just to give that spiel?"

Jesse chuckled, "I'd like to fancy myself a sheriff, I s'pose, especially given Overwatch's status. I've lived here my whole life, so it's sort of dear to me, I guess."

The man muttered, quietly, "I've just been traveling through. I just stopped by here for a drink, maybe some food if I feel like it."

"Eh, try the Bacon 'n Bacon; that travels well if you don't finish it," Jesse replied, dryly, suddenly jerking his shoulder, his hand reaching up to grasp it, rubbing it gently.

The man reached a hand over, "Michael Hale."

"Jesse McCree," he replied, accepting the handshake, "So you're traveling through? Whatcha running from, kid?"

Michael laughed quickly, "Running from?"

Jesse gave a side-long glance, "There's only two people dumb enough to pass through here. Tourists, and people running from stuff. Pardon me, but you don't look like a tourist."

"Okay," Michael grinned, "So I'm not a tourist, so?"

"Is it a woman?" Jesse went on, though this time is was more rhetorical, as if already knowing the answer, "You watch it; women are dangerous beings, you hear? You seem like you're lookin' for something too, so just some advice."

Jesse shrugged as a woman left the kitchen, smiling widely as she brought over a plate and cup of soda, setting it in front of the cowboy, hurriedly leaning across the bar to give him a kiss, Jesse happily accepting.

"There ya go, dear!" she spoke up, happily.

Jesse smiled, "The sun might be up, darlin', but it doesn't get bright until I see you."

She waved him off, happily turning and rushing back toward the kitchen. Jesse began to eat, though Michael only watched him with a wide smirk.

"Dangerous, huh?"

The cowboy looked up at him, eyeing him sardonically, "I wasn't ever a good teacher. Not good as a student, either."

Michael shook his head, amused, as he took another drink of coffee, "Well, from all of my experiences with them, not many people turn out to be good as Overwatch agents either."

Jesse eyed him subtly, without being seen, as he continued eating. Michael held his cup in his hand for a moment before bringing it back up to his face, chugging the last of it before placing it down near the opposite end of the counter, rising to his feet after leaving a tip.

"Have a good one," he spoke up, turning to leave.

Jesse didn't move, simply continuing his meal as Michael rounded the large panel that separated the diner form the doors, walking out into the rough heat of the southwest United States, keeping his eyes drawn nearly closed in the early sunlight, standing out on the outer deck of the restaurant.

He reached down to check on his phone, scrolling through it slowly with whatever slow speeds he was able to utilize this far out in the middle of nowhere, before shoving it back into his pocket, starting down the stairs toward a small motorcycle he had been using to cross the country. He straddled the bike, groaning as his muscles ached along the way, sore from his continued use. He hadn't stopped to rest in a week now, and his body was beginning to feel the wear.

He thought about his lack of sleep, but in a sharp, immediate second, he was met with a massive pain in his neck, knocking him both unconscious as well as off his bike. Before he could hit the ground, however, McCree shot an arm down, grasping him by the collar to keep him from slamming into the hard ground below.

"Sorry, buddy, but you ain't goin' anywhere for now," Jesse sighed, shaking his head, picking the limp body up, slowly.

* * *

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this story! As far as reviews go, it's been my biggest hit, and I'm so happy to have had so many people expressing how much they enjoyed this as I was writing it :D

As far as the ending, just in case I hadn't made it clear earlier, all of my Overwatch stories are set in the same universe, so in other stories of mine, events in this story have been referenced, and stuff from this story as impacted events in other stories. In the grand scheme of things, with this done, I'll be continuing 'Deadlocked', which takes place after the time this story's epilogue takes place, and just for some promotion, Sombra has made an earlier appearance in the epilogue for 'Madness/Outback' which may or may not directly relate to her character's thoughts in 'Lacroix'.

Hopefully, after 'Deadlocked', I'd like to do a Talon-specific story, before finishing up with an epic final story that ties everything together. Until then, I would also like to finish my Warcraft series at some point, so I'm not sure when I'll get to finishing anything at this point xD

In any case, I'm excited to be continuing this sort of 'expanded story', and I hope to continue seeing you guys in the future :D


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